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Chapter Text

Harry’s palms are sweaty. Everything he needs is in front of him, and he stands there, tense and anxious and waiting for the signal. He’s ready. He might be taking this entire thing far too seriously, but looking around, he doesn’t think he is the only one. Most of his fellow contestants seem poised to give their absolute best.

“Ready!” Ron bellows.

“Set!” shrieks Pansy Parkinson.

“Bake!” they chorus, and everyone under the white canopy springs into action – that is, everyone but Luna, who calmly floats over to Padma, just to touch her shoulder and wish her good luck. Harry makes a wild grab for his ingredients and gets started separating eggs, knowing he needs to get his ginger spice sponge into the oven as fast as possible, so he can focus on perfecting his maple cream filling. He likes to think his flavor combination is a good compromise between simple and complex, and the ideal way to start the competition when he doesn’t yet know what the judges are looking for.

“Macmillan,” he hears Parkinson’s voice somewhere toward the front of the tent, magically amplified for the benefit of the many spectators, including those listening on the wireless. “Tell us about the sort of swiss roll you’re making today!”

“Oh, this is going to be my take on a Bramble cocktail, you see” Ernie says. From the corner of his eye, Harry can see him waving his arms around in illustration. “I’m doing a lemon sponge, and the filling will be blackberry with a healthy dose of gin.”

“Aren’t you worried that the alcohol will overtake the other flavors?” Parkinson has clearly done her homework, because Harry knows that three weeks ago, she had never even seen anyone bake a cake before, and now she sounds as though she knows what she’s talking about.

“Not at all, not at all,” Ernie says cheerily. “In my opinion, a healthy amount of gin will put anyone in a much more benevolent mood.”

“Interesting,” Parkinson says, sounding skeptical.

While he’s whipping his egg whites and sugar into shape with energetic wand movements, Harry thinks that he’s lucky he has learned to tune out Hermione’s constant nervous muttering before tests over the years, because she is working at the station behind his, and she’s doing it now. Instead of History of Magic facts, she’s reciting the steps to creating her tiramisu swiss roll at lightning speed. She’s clearly nervous. The entire thing is her brainchild, after all.

She’d been approached by Blaise Zabini, of all people. He’d been looking for a spectacular idea for a Muggle Studies project, something that would help reintegrate Slytherin with the rest of them, and that could show the world they weren’t bad people at their core. Harry didn’t know the details of what they had planned at first, but the entire thing had evolved into a spectacle of epic proportions. If Harry had to guess, it was because after the traumatic war they’d been through, the entire wizarding world was dying for some light, harmless entertainment. He isn’t about to complain. The contest marks the first time in a long time he’s been able to make himself care about something.

“So, um. Goyle.” It’s Ron’s turn to interview a contestant. “What are you making?”

“Roll,” Goyle grunts, who seems to have forgotten he has a wand available, because he is busy whisking his egg whites into submission by hand. It’s quite the intimidating sight.

“Right, but what kind of roll?”

“Swiss.”

“Flavors, Greg, we want to know the flavors!” Parkinson butts in.

“Pumpkin cheesecake coconut and sprinkles.”

Harry stops, considers that flavor combination, and briefly wonders whether Goyle just decided to pack all his favorite flavors into his creation at once.

“Sprinkles,” Ron says, sounding mystified.

“Crunchy sugar things Muggles put in their cakes,” Goyle says, and holds out the plastic container someone must have procured for him. “I think they’re pretty.”

Someone taps Harry’s shoulder, jerking his attention away. “Can I borrow your wand?” Luna asks, serene smile on her face.

Harry looks at her, baffled. “Did you forget your own?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But I am worried that the unicorn hair core is going to react badly with the flavorings. The basil, especially. Unicorns aren’t very fond of it, after all, and if my spellwork is off, I won’t get the balance just right.”

Harry hands over his wand without question, realizing only after she holds it in her hands that she’s the one of very few people for whom he’d do this without hesitating even a moment.  

“Lovegood and Potter seem to have decided on a cooperative strategy,” Parkinson comments just as Harry starts folding the rest of his batter in with the egg whites. This part is best done by hand anyway, his wandwork just isn’t delicate enough to avoid knocking out the air he’s whipped into the eggs.

Time seems to fly. Harry works as though possessed, slams his sponge into the oven and gets started on his filling. He is hasty, fumbles a bowl, and it falls to the ground as he curses.

“No cause for alarm, dear audience,” says Ron. “It’s just our favorite Dark Lord vanquisher throwing pots and pans at everyone.”

“Alright there Harry?” asks someone.

Harry looks up and into the face of Draco Malfoy, who’s looking back at him from his own station with a mixture of concern and bemusement.

“Brilliant,” Harry says. “I meant to do that. Ran out of space up here.”

That startles a laugh out of Draco, before he goes back to focusing on his own bake.

Harry turns back to his sponge and is relieved to see it’s turned out acceptable. He applies cooling charms after dry-rolling it so that he can fill it immediately. Soon, curses and groans of despair aplenty are heard beneath the canopy as everyone gets started on rolling up their sponges.

It’s fiddly work, and there isn’t a good spell to keep the delicate cake layer from breaking, at least not one that Harry’s found. Behind him, Hermione’s muttering grows increasingly desperate. Padma is crying into her crumbling peppermint mocha creation, and Neville switches frantically between comforting her and finishing his own work. At the station next to Harry’s, Draco keeps blotting his face with a monogramed handkerchief, and Ernie, who insists on calling his roll a roulade, has taken to chugging the gin he used for flavoring. It’s all an emotional mess, dotted with Pansy’s occasional pointed questions and Ron’s repeated inquiries of “Er, mate, are you sure that the napkin there is supposed to be inside the roll?” to an unconcerned Greg Goyle.

Harry, feeling the pressure, wonders how he ever thought this would be light entertainment.

Ron and Parkinson count down from ten with the crowd, and they’ve reached three when Harry realizes he’s forgotten the final flourish on his decoration, and he flings himself across the counter with a sieve and a spoonful of icing sugar, barely managing to get it on before the countdown ends and a stasis charm wraps around his creation.

Harry sags, bangs his forehead on the counter, and thanks Merlin it’s over.

“Are you okay?” a completely frazzled Hermione asks him.

“Fine,” he says, and falls into step with her as they follow the others to the space behind the work stations, where they line up. “Just a bit intense, yeah?” He files into the space next to Draco, gives Hermione a reassuring smile and then takes a deep, calming breath.

Draco blots at a red stain on his otherwise white shirtsleeve with his handkerchief. “Blast. That’ll never come out.”

“Should have worn short sleeves,” Harry says without thinking, and then winces when Draco freezes, realizing he’s an idiot. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Draco sighs. “I know you didn’t, Harry. Calm down.”

Harry desperately casts for a change of topic, and eventually settles on the obvious. “Happy with your roll?”

Draco grimaces. “I think the raspberry filling ended up too wet,” he says, apparently seriously concerned. “How about yours? Looked good, from what I could see.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but it’s then that the judges enter the tent. He is excited to discover that the first one of them is Molly Weasley. Now that he thinks about it, it makes sense – she certainly knows her baking. The second one, shocking him, is Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry wonders just how the new Minister for Magic got himself roped into this, and who managed to do the roping. It was probably Hermione, or maybe McGonagall. Possibly both.

“Oh my,” Molly says, taking in the mess the contestants have made at and around their stations. Dirty baking sheets, whisks, and icing sugar have been flung anywhere and everywhere. Along with Kingsley, she starts perusing the rolls lined up on the table in front of them. The judging is anonymous, as to avoid accusations of favoritism, since the contestants have been picked from all four houses and all over the popularity spectrum. Harry sees his creation sitting there, all the way to the judges’ left, and hates how long he’s going to have to wait until he knows whether they like it.

“This looks lovely,” Molly says fondly of the first roll. “A bit clumsy, maybe, but certainly made with love.”

Kingsley hums as he eats. “Caramel apple,” he squeezes out. “One of my favorites!”

“And some vanilla as well, unless I’m mistaken.” Molly smiles. “What a wonderful start to the competition.”

They try roll after roll. Goyle’s chosen flavors confound them, and Harry could swear Molly giggles a little after trying Ernie’s boozy creation. Hermione’s tiramisu roll is apparently awful. They both fawn over Luna’s unusual flavor combination of blackberry, basil and lavender, which she has somehow managed to finish despite her whimsically slow approach. Draco’s pink champagne and raspberry roll gets high marks as well, though Molly does comment on the wetness of his filling, like he had feared. Then, finally, they try the ginger spice and maple cream roll Harry has worked so hard on. He holds his breath.

“A little heavy on the ginger,” Kingsley says.

“Quite. It does have a nice, tight roll, and the maple cream is lovely,” says Molly. “But I do wish it had some more sweetness to it.” She studies the lineup of bakers closely for the first time. “Well done, all of you.”

Harry’s shoulders sag, because that did not go as well as he had hoped.

He ends up fifth out of eight – which is made official when the glowing number five Kingsley had scribbled into the air above his swiss roll zooms across the tent and affixes itself to his shirt. As everyone files out and the house-elves descend upon the mess, he vows to make it up in the next round.

Chapter Text

Sometimes it felt like a black vortex sucking him under and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Sometimes it felt like floating in ice cold water, his body slowly going numb as he tried to find anything but endless gray sea between him and the horizon.

Harry felt adrift in a way he never had before. He watched, every day, as life passed him by without ever touching him in a way that mattered. He was only an observer, no longer an active participant. Oftentimes, he wondered how it was possible to feel so isolated and alone while surrounded by so many well-meaning people.

 “Harry,” Hermione said, popping her head into the owlery, where Harry was very busy sitting and staring up at the rafters. He had no idea how long he’d been there. He hadn’t felt able to go to class, not when all of his classmates were talking about nothing but yet another Harry Potter Special the Prophet had published the previous day – and the Bake-Off event which had been mentioned in it – and so he had found himself a quiet spot in which to wait it out.

“I need your help.”

Harry frowned. “With what?” he asked unenthusiastically.

“The Bake-Off.”

“Ah.”

He hadn’t had much of a reaction when Hermione had first shared the idea she had worked out with Zabini. He knew she’d expected one, and he hadn’t meant to upset her, but a reaction would have required him to care about it, and caring, these days, felt so very, very exhausting.

“I know you don’t really want anything to do with it, and I know I pushed you into participating, and I don’t want to ask any more of you-”

He sighed. “Just tell me what the problem is.”

“Malfoy.”

That got him to look up. “What? Why? What’d he do?”

“He’s…” Hermione hesitated. “Well. I think it’s best you see for yourself.”

A feeling of alarm pierced through the numbness. Harry struggled to his feet. “Is he sabotaging you? Has he been convincing people not to participate? Hermione, if he’s giving you a hard time-”

“Harry, just see for yourself. Talk to him. He’s in the kitchens.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” He hastily picked up his bookbag and slung it over his shoulder, hurrying after her down the stairs, trying hard to tamp down his annoyance and, surprisingly, disappointment. Malfoy had been so changed, coming back to school, humbled, polite, and to find out it had all been an act made him feel inexplicably betrayed.

~*~

“Malfoy!” Harry took a step into the expansive Hogwarts kitchens and looked around, scanning the room, arms crossed as he sidestepped the occasional house elf hurrying past. “Where the hell are you? What are you playing at? Hermione said…”

He spotted a white-blond head of hair and marched towards it. Malfoy looked up at him from where he was crouched next to one of the large ovens. His eyes were wide, his expression panicked. He looked, frankly, a bit of a mess. There was an empty wine glass sitting at his feet.

“I…I didn’t know it was so involved,” Malfoy said and looked down at the parchment in his hands, which appeared to be a messy set of notes. “I’ll fail miserably, and everyone will laugh at me and agree that I’m useless, and I’ll never be able to find work, no matter how many NEWTs I manage, because everyone will know that I can’t even bake a measly cake, and-”

“Stop,” Harry interrupted, utterly baffled by what he was witnessing, and then, for lack of anything better, “Breathe.”

Malfoy did.

“How much wine have you had?”

Malfoy eyed the glass, looking wistful. “Not nearly enough. The elves won’t give me any more. Perhaps if you asked them…”

“Not a chance. What…I don’t…what are you even talking about?”

“Baking,” Malfoy said pitifully.

“Oh.” Harry realized at this point that he had obviously misunderstood what the problem was. “You’re participating?”

Malfoy hiccupped. “Obviously. Well. I’m trying to participate, but as it turns out, baking is…is…it’s impossible to do!”

Harry couldn’t help but snort at that. If he could figure out how to bake fairy cakes at the age of seven, it was certainly possible for Malfoy to do so at the ripe old age of eighteen. “No it’s not. It just takes practice.”

“House elves,” Malfoy said, picked up his wine glass and squinted at it. He looked disappointed, like he had expected it to miraculously refill itself since he had last looked at it. “House elves can bake. How do they do it? Does house elf magic work differently? Is that how they manage to create all these wonderful cakes and tarts at the feasts? I don’t understand.”

“Their magic does work differently, but I don’t think that’s how they make the cakes. They’re just excellent bakers, that’s all.”

“That’s all, he says," Malfoy scoffed. "Like it’s that simple.”

“It is that simple. I learned how.”

Malfoy squinted up at him. “You can bake?”

“Just basic stuff, but yes,” Harry said.

Malfoy growled. “How dare you, Potter!”

“Er, what?”

“How dare you! Not only can you defeat dark lords, but you can bake, too? Are you trying to make us all feel useless?”

“It’s not exactly a rounded skillset,” Harry said. This entire conversation was quickly taking on a surreal quality.

“Well, that settles it,” Malfoy said, and started the process of heaving himself up. “You’re teaching me to bake.”

“No I’m not,” Harry said.

“Of course you are. Otherwise it isn’t fair. How am I supposed to have a chance of winning if you won’t help me?”

“I am not teaching you to bake, Malfoy.”

Malfoy gave him a pitiful look from under uncharacteristically messy strands of hair. “Please?”

“No. Sod off.”

And that was that, at least as far as Harry was concerned.

~*~

“Did you talk to him?”

Harry looked up from the owl feather he’d been in the process of fraying. “What?” he asked blankly.

Hermione huffed and looked down at him. “Honestly Harry. Malfoy?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s just scared of baking, I guess. That’s all.”

“And can you help him?”

“What?” Harry asked again. The chilly air in the owlery didn’t do enough to keep him alert and in the moment. The feeling of being lost was taking over again.

Hermione dropped her hands from her hips and crouched next to him, gently touching his shoulder.

“This isn’t…it’s not you, Harry. It’s like you’re not quite here anymore. I’m worried. For good reason, I think.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, staring down at the feather between his fingers. He couldn’t find the energy to insist he was fine.

“I want to help, but you need to let me. You need to give yourself a chance to get better.”

There was a lump in Harry’s throat, suddenly. She sounded distraught, and the idea that he was the cause of it made Harry hate himself that much more. “What does that have to do with Malfoy?” he asked helplessly.

 “Nothing, really, but he does need to learn how to bake before the competition, and I think you need a project. I think it would help you.”

Harry stayed quiet for a time, considering it, thankful that Hermione wasn’t pressing him for more. “You don’t know that,” he said eventually.

“No, I don’t. I don’t think anyone really knows what you need for sure. But I think it might be a good idea, give you something to focus on. You won’t need to be around many people to do it, either.”

Harry remained silent.

“Please, will you try?”

He frowned, finger tracing along the edge of the feather.

“Harry?” Her voice trembled, like she was scared, truly scared, and it felt like a tiny shard of ice stabbing into his chest. The sensation was muted, he could barely feel it, but he knew it was guilt. It occurred to him that this was nothing like the painful stab of betrayal he had felt when he’d thought Malfoy had started trouble.

“Yeah, fine,” he said. “I’ll give it a try. Mind you, I'm not making any promises.”

She gave him a tremulous smile, but he felt nothing.

Chapter Text

“Welcome to round two,” Parkinson announces. “You know what that means! It’s the Wands Away round!”

All of the contestants obediently stow their wands in the drawers beneath their counters. There is quite a bit of cursing and slamming going on. Neville tells his wand an amusingly weepy goodbye.

“What you’ll be making today,” Ron says, and it seems like everyone is holding their breath, “is a caramel chocolate ombre cake.”

Most people look confused. “Oh!” says Hermione, because of course she knows what the hell ombre is. With a flick of Parkinson’s wand, instructions appear on the blackboard before them.

Harry tries to make sense of them. Apparently, he’ll need to make two batters, then divide them both in half again and add varying amounts of cocoa to each. There’s caramel involved as well, of course, and chocolate icing. He can’t imagine the result, whatever it is, will be worth the effort.

“What the bloody buggering fuck?” he hears Draco mutter, and can’t resist a snort of amusement.

It’s a pain to get all the sponges made. Harry can’t imagine it’s terribly exciting for the audience either, watching them all mix batter for so long. At least they are allowed to make use of the sideboard with the cooling charm this round, else he’s sure people would be starting to fall asleep from the boredom of watching them all fan their sponges for a sodding hour. The only thing of note that happens is Ernie throwing his ruined sponge at a heckler in the crowd in frustration, and starting over.

“Ernie Macmillan, who is set to start a Ministry internship once he has taken his NEWTs, is disposing of his failure in a most un-Hufflepuff fashion,” Parkinson narrates promptly.

Things get a bit more entertaining when the cakes are baked and it’s time for caramel sauce. Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey hover, wands at the ready in case anyone manages to burn themselves horribly in the process. Harry dumps sugar and water into the provided small copper cauldron, just like the instructions say, and heats the whole thing until it forms a syrup. Then he stirs again and watches, stupidly, as everything turns into white, rock-hard crystals.

“That can’t be right,” he mutters.

“Harry! Hey!” Draco hisses. When Harry looks, he’s faced with more white crystals in a cauldron. “Does yours look like this?”

He nods.

“Is it supposed to?”

He shakes his head. They look at each other, sharing confusion and bewilderment in equal measures.

The first ones to produce actual caramel are, shockingly, Neville and Goyle. Harry watches with envy as they finish their sauce and begin stacking their cakes. Next to Harry, Draco has started on a round of inventive swearing as Ron and Parkinson go around, vanishing the contents of several cauldrons as to allow their owners to try again. And again.

Twenty minutes later, Harry is staring in awe at the cooling golden-brown mass inside his cauldron. He’s done it, finally, he’s made caramel. As he starts putting together his cake, using the caramel sauce as mortar, he feels the envious stares of both Hermione and Draco.

“Potter, what’s the trick?” Draco hisses shamelessly.

Harry wishes he could tell him. “I have no bloody clue,” he admits. “It just sort of happened.”

“You’ve always been sodding lucky,” Draco grumps, but it’s good-natured.

“No talking!” Hermione snaps at them, looking as though she is ready to burst into tears.

Draco reels back as though slapped.

“She gets like that,” Harry tells him in explanation. “She’s even worse during exams week, don’t mind her.”

“I’ll try,” Draco says sullenly, turns, and shoves his cauldron to the floor in frustration.

“Oh, dear,” says Parkinson. “It looks like the stress is getting the better of this reformed bad boy, dear audience.”

Harry snorts. Parkinson certainly has a way with words.

“Are you talking about former Death Eater Draco Malfoy?” Ron asks, probably thinking he’s being sly. Harry does not approve and tries to catch Ron’s eye, an act that is probably at least partially to blame for caramel sauce suddenly dripping all over his workspace.

 “Yes Ron, I’m talking about Draco Malfoy, the tragic victim of circumstance who was cleared of any crimes by the Wizengamot, among others through the testimony by fellow contestant Harry Potter.”

“Right,” says Ron. “As you can see, Draco Malfoy, who may not be a war criminal but has certainly been a bloody great git since I’ve known him, is getting started on his caramel yet again, his sixth attempt. I can’t help but feel he deserves it.”

“I can’t help but feel the need to remind you that while the contestants have no wands, I do,” Parkinson says, syrupy-sweet. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Moving on,” Ron says hastily.

Harry’s stack of sponges is a bit wonky, but he’s pretty sure he’s got the order right, darkest to lightest. It’s a good thing, because time is almost up, and he has yet to make his ganache, which is supposed to cover the outside of the cake. As he starts heating up his cream, he notices from the corner of his eye that Draco is doing the same.

“Finally got that caramel?” he asks.

“Fuck no,” Draco replies. “I’ve given up. I’ll just use ganache instead.”

“You won’t have enough for the outside then,” Harry points out.

“I will leave the cake semi-naked,” Draco says confidently. “Apparently, that’s a thing. Very modern, according to that one magazine Granger brought in.”

“If you say so,” Harry says, feeling dubious.

He ends up slapping his frosting on seconds before the round is over. His cake looks a giant mess, but he feels marginally better once he carries it up to the front and realizes that Hermione’s four sponges are accompanied by neither ganache nor caramel.

“Well this is exciting,” Molly Weasley says when the judges enter the tent once again. “Ombre cakes. Very modern.” Then she reaches the table, and her smile dims a little. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“This is…” Kingsley Shacklebolt looks hesitant. “Interesting.”

Harry’s patchy ganache is deservedly criticized by them, but he isn’t the only one whose cake has issues. Unsurprisingly, Hermione’s dry stack of sponges performs the worst, but they don’t like Ernie’s cake either, which has soupy caramel sauce all over the place. Harry doesn’t blame them, it’s a pretty disgusting sight, the watery sauce dripping from his serving stand onto the table and from there onto the floor. Draco’s “semi-naked” creation with the ganache on the inside confuses them, and they wonder out loud if perhaps the baker misread the instructions. They are not happy that Neville mixed up the order of his sponges, either, but they compliment the wavy pattern that Luna has somehow managed to make into the frosting. Padma’s cake is near-perfect, neat as a pin, but the one of which the judges are the fondest is Goyle’s.

“How?” Harry can hear Ernie muttering. “Just…how?”

“Well, that was a catastrophe,” Draco says as they walk out of the tent together. Far in front of them, they can see Hermione lecturing Ron, presumably about his lack of commentator neutrality when it comes to Draco. She’d already whacked him over the head with a whisk – a dirty one – back in the tent. Ron now has bits of ganache in his hair.

Harry has yet another five glowing on his shirt, while Draco has a three and a seven, marking a tie between them. They are making their way towards the Great Hall for dinner, while back at the tent, some of the student volunteers cut the ombre cakes that are at least halfway decent and pass them out to the audience.

“Could have been worse,” Harry says, in a somewhat pathetic attempt at cheering up. “You didn’t get last place.”

“No,” Draco agrees. “Never thought I’d say this but thank Merlin for Granger.”

Chapter Text

 “Right. Well. Great.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck and tried to find slightly more productive words.

“Is it…supposed to be like that?” Malfoy asked, and used a fork to carefully poke the banana bread he had just taken out of its tin. A few black flakes fell off. 

“Is your baked creation supposed to resemble an incendio’d brick with an interior that looks – and smells – like a rubber bouncy ball and a colony of flobberworms had a baby? I don’t know, Malfoy, you tell me.”

Malfoy heaved a sigh of obvious frustration. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Well, you treated the recipe more like a faraway source of inspiration, for one. I don’t understand how you’re so good at potions, which works basically the same way, but you can’t apply it to baking at all.”

“Then how are you so good at baking but you can’t apply it to potions at all?” Malfoy asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Harry stared, open-mouthed, for several seconds. “Okay, point,” he said then.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get drunk and forget this ever happened.”

“Well, you can’t. Not yet. We only have so much time left before the competition starts-”

“Potter, there is no way I can be in this competition. I’ll be a complete laughingstock.”

“Fine, well…” Harry scrubbed his face with his palm, “can we keep practicing a bit anyway? Maybe you’ll get the hang of it.”

With a sigh, Malfoy sank to the floor and rested his forearms on his knees.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want you to fail.”

“Why not? You should be salivating at the idea of seeing me embarrass myself in front of half of Britain’s wizarding population.”

“Well,” Harry said softly, only truly realizing it himself at that moment, “I’m not.” He mimicked Malfoy and sat on the floor. They’d both been on their feet for a while, bustling around in the practice kitchen that the Room of Requirement had turned into for them. The house elves had stocked it with ingredients for them. Harry wondered if they’d be upset Malfoy had just used said ingredients to create some manner of food-adjacent abomination.

“Why?”

“Not sure,” Harry said. “I think mostly I’m tired of fighting. Tired of animosity. Tired of just about everything else too, to be honest.”

Malfoy remained silent for some time. Harry realized with some surprise that this was probably the longest actual conversation the two of them had ever had.”

“I’ve noticed you haven’t been around much lately,” Malfoy said. “In class, I mean. And the common room. And half the meals.”

Harry couldn’t prevent a tiny smirk from appearing on his face. “Been keeping tabs on me, have you?”

Malfoy huffed out a breath of bland amusement. “Me and most of Hogwarts.”

“I’ve been in the owlery quite a bit,” Harry said. “Whenever I can bring myself to get out of bed, anyway.” He sucked in a sharp breath when he realized what he’d just shared. “Don’t…don’t tell anyone.”

Once again, Malfoy was quiet, before he said, “I won’t. A bit of peace is the least you deserve.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say something like that,” Harry muttered.

“Yes, well.” Malfoy spread his arms in a ‘ta-daa’ sort of gesture. “Feast your eyes on the new, improved Draco Malfoy.”

“That sounds like a sales pitch.”

“Well, take advantage of today’s offer at the Post-War Emporium – you can buy three for the price of two!”

The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched up. “I don’t think I could handle more than one. I don’t think anyone could.”

“Merlin knows my mother would have long since pitched herself off the nearest tower if there had been more than one of me, growing up.” Malfoy seemed very interested in his hands, which were picking at a frayed thread on his robe. “Might have been nice to have a sibling though.”

“Mh.” Harry leaned his head back against the counter he was sitting in front of. “You two would have been terrors.”

“You say that as though I wasn’t enough of a terror all by myself.”

Harry shrugged. Malfoy was right, but he wasn’t about to shatter the fragile peace they had achieved by agreeing too enthusiastically.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Malfoy asked softly.

“Can’t promise I’ll answer, but sure.”

“Have you seen a mind healer, since the war?”

Harry looked up in surprise. “No. Why?”

“Merlin’s saggy tits, Potter, why the fuck not? You went through a war.”

“You did too,” Harry pointed out, feeling a bit uncomfortable. Molly Weasley and Hermione had both brought up the topic, but he had nipped the idea in the bud almost on instinct. “We all did.”

“I saw one over the summer. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.”

Harry shrugged. “I can deal with it on my own.”

“First of all, you shouldn’t have to, and second of all, if you’ll forgive me for saying it, you’re obviously not doing so hot.”

Harry’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“As I said, you’re barely going to class or meals. It doesn’t exactly scream ‘perfectly adjusted’.”

“I’m not going to spread my life story out before a mind healer, Malfoy.”

“Fine. I won’t make you – not that I could. But maybe think about it?”

Harry sighed. “Fine.”

“Good. Now, are there any easier bakes than banana bread? Anything even I can’t screw up?”

Harry stretched to reach the beginner cookbook they’d left on the counter. “I’ll check. Maybe try to pretend you’re making a potion, measure everything exactly and follow the recipe more closely. I’m positive next time will be better.” It felt a bit odd, trying to be Malfoy’s moral support, but he found he didn’t mind it.

“It can hardly get worse than a banana brick.” Malfoy grumbled, but he heaved himself up and bravely started picking out another recipe.

Chapter Text

“If I start smashing my head against the wall, don’t mind me,” Malfoy said, “It just means I’m busy despairing.”

Harry was combing recipe books, trying to find any and all advice on swiss rolls, while Malfoy searched magazines for unusual flavor combinations. Their first attempt at a basic roll had not been very good, despite the fact that Malfoy’s skill had increased a shocking amount since The Brick Which Shall Not Be Named. To Harry’s delight, he had produced a perfectly adequate pan of brownies the very next day, and never looked back. Two days ago, he’d made a picture-perfect cheesecake, and then yelled his success joyfully across the kitchen. Harry had grinned back at him proudly.

“It’s not so bad,” Harry said now, trying to stay positive.

“Not so bad?! Our practice swiss roll wasn’t worthy of being fed to the Giant Squid! And we still need to figure out what we’re going to do for the Charms Round!”

“Malfoy!” Harry barked, making him drop his book. “Panicking is not going to help.”

“Right. I know. I know that.” Malfoy took a slow, deep breath.

“Good,” Harry said gently. He felt bad he had snapped, because he knew perfectly well why Malfoy was taking this so seriously.

When he looked over again, Draco was chewing his lip.

“D’you think…”

Harry waited, but he did not go on. “What is it?”

“D’you think you might call me Draco?”

“Huh.” Harry considered that, and tried it out. “Draco. I don’t think I’d mind.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy…Draco near-whispered.

“Call me Harry, then.”

Draco gave him a fleeting smile. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, Harry marveling at how much things had changed in less than two weeks. He’d never have thought it was possible for them to get along well enough to be on a first-name basis. Strange, how simple it all was after priorities changed as much as theirs had, and when animosity and resentment were stripped away enough to reveal the people beneath.

“Do you know who else is participating?” Draco asked. “I didn’t think to ask before, but I haven’t seen anyone else obsessing over baked goods lately.”

Harry pressed a finger to the bridge of his glasses to push them up his nose as he thought. “I haven’t seen a list, but I know Blaise talked Hermione into it, saying one of them had to represent in the competition proper. She’s been panicking about it.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “I promise you, all he wanted was to get her off his back as far as organizing this thing is concerned.”

“Can’t actually blame him,” Harry said thoughtfully, “I’ve noticed she does tend to, er, dominate the decision-making process, and it’s supposed to be his project.”

“Exactly.”

“And I assume you know Goyle’s baking too?”

Draco stared. “Goyle? As in, Greg Goyle?”

“Yes. Has he not mentioned it? I’ve seen him holed up in the library with Neville and Padma Patil, going over recipes.”

“No, he hasn’t said anything.” Draco shook his head, looking baffled. “And with Longbottom? Since when do these two even get along?”

“I think they both wanted Padma’s help, so it was by necessity.”

“Still. Those two…I mean, I know you weren’t here seventh year, but…what I mean is, I don’t think I would have been able to be so forgiving in Longbottom’s place.” Draco was chewing on his lip again.

“I haven’t talked to him about it, so I’m not sure how he feels about it, but he looked fairly comfortable when I saw the three of them.”

“Good. I mean, I’m glad.” Draco looked down at his hands. He seemed awkward, suddenly.

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m not sure who else is baking,” he said in a weak attempt to bridge the silence. “Someone from Hufflepuff, probably. I think they wanted all the houses to take part.”

“Long as it’s not Smith,” said Draco.

Harry shuddered at the idea.

“Although that would be good motivation for us, wouldn’t it,” Draco continued. “To make sure he has no chance of winning. I bet his baked goods would taste as bitter as he is.”

Snorting a laugh, Harry tightened his grip on his recipe book when it threatened to slip off his lap. Draco cleared his throat and straightened up.

“Right, so. The Bake-Off. Here’s an idea: do you think anyone would notice if I just gave a house-elf some Polyjuice with my hair in it?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Harry grinned. “I hope you know that.”

“I’m desperate,” Draco corrected him.

“Honestly, I’m convinced you’ll be fine.”

“I hope you’re right,” Draco said. “I wouldn’t have been, without your help.”

The words were out before Harry could stop himself. “You know, when Hermione first asked me to try and help you, I immediately thought you were up to something.”

Draco’s head shot up and he stared at Harry with a carefully blank face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“Not anymore,” Harry said honestly.

“Oh. Well, good.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Right.” Draco looked down. “Again, thanks. It’s only, when you said that, it occurred to me that maybe you were simply trying the whole ‘keep your enemies closer’ strategy.”

“Are we really still enemies?”

“No,” Draco said.

“No,” Harry agreed.

“Well. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, Draco smirked. “We’re both ridiculous.”

“A bit, yeah,” Harry agreed. It was quite enjoyable, actually, being ridiculous together instead of worrying about evil plots and childish feuds. Harry wanted more of it.

He turned his attention back to the book in his lap. It wasn’t giving him much to work with as far as swiss rolls went, and he was starting to think they would simply have to practice and experiment until they could create them perfectly, without leaky filling and crumbling sponge. Thoughtfully, he brushed his thumb over the page.

“You’ve been eating more, I noticed,” Draco said suddenly.

Harry frowned. “Well, yes. I can’t very well figure out if any of our bakes have turned out fine unless I try them.”

“No, I mean, meals.”

“Oh. Yes. I’ve…tried, to make more of an effort. I thought about what you said last week, and I know Hermione’s been worried for a while, and I figured I won’t get better unless I actually do something about it. So, you know. It’s a start.” He shrugged.

“Good.”

“I suppose. Hermione and Ron said the same, but it feels so strange getting a pat on the back just for…functioning. That’s not exactly an accomplishment.”

“Like hell it isn’t.”

“Seriously?”

“There should really be a mind healer on staff,” Draco said. “Several, actually. We’re all screwed up, massively screwed up, and functioning isn’t something to take for granted. Did you know there are more than thirty students who couldn’t come back, not because they’re injured or dead, but because they couldn’t handle being back at school? Do you know why Mandy Brocklehurst isn’t here? I heard Michael Corner talking about it: She can’t leave her bedroom for more than five minutes at a time or she’ll lose her mind with fear. Wayne Hopkins can’t be around other people because he’ll scream and dive for cover when there’s a loud noise, and then he either starts throwing hexes or he just sits there and rocks back and forth for hours at a time.”

“Draco,” Harry said.

“And maybe everyone who’s here hasn’t got it quite so bad, but that doesn’t mean we’re all fine. We’re mourning and having nightmares and trying to deal with a lot of fucked up memories, and that’s not normal! Yet for some reason we’re expected to go about our lives just like we did before any of this started. That’s more than a bit ridiculous, don’t you think? Of course nobody listens to me, just on general principle these days, so there isn’t anything I can do, but that doesn’t mean I’m fine with it.”

“Draco, I’m going to hug you now.”

“And especially the teachers should-” Draco broke off and blinked. “What?”

But Harry had already set aside his recipe book and moved closer, and he put his arms around Draco and laid his head on his shoulder, just for a moment.

“Er,” Draco said once Harry sat back, his arms hovering oddly as he blinked in a kind of confused daze.

“I hope that was alright. I should have asked first, I’m sorry. I just…it means a lot that you think about this so much, that you want to see everyone be alright. You changed a lot more than I thought.”

Draco remained silent.

“I’m going to ask McGonagall about it,” Harry announced. “See if I can convince her to listen to you.”

“Oh,” Draco said weakly. “Good.”

Harry waited, but all Draco did was frown and look him up and down.

“Did I break you?” Harry asked eventually.

That seemed to bring Draco to his senses. He sniffed haughtily. “What? No, don’t be silly, I’m perfectly fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” Harry said, trying to look very serious.

“And besides, we have baking to figure out. Focus, Potter!”

“Duly noted,” Harry said, and tried his best.

Chapter Text

“Welcome back, dear audience, to our second day of adventurous baking!” Ron shouts with a little too much enthusiasm for Harry’s taste.

Parkinson seems to agree, if her face is anything to go by while she says, “Today, there is only one big event to be excited about – or terrified of, in the case of our participants – and that’s the Charms round.”

Ron explains, “Everyone in the tent will need to bake a tasty cake once again, but they’ll also be judged on their wandwork and inventiveness as they enchant and bewitch their creations according to a theme.”

“Today’s theme, which was picked by a vote on the WWN, is the four seasons. Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed – I was hoping that one of the more outrageous suggestions would come out on top, such as Celestina Warbeck song titles, or the one that…what was it called? Ah yes, ‘Guilty Pleasures’.”

“The four seasons is fine,” Ron grumbles.

“Yes, well, while my stick-in-the-mud co-host is busy being mind-numbingly boring, let’s take a look at the rankings. At the very bottom of the leaderboard is Hermione Granger-”

“Whose heroic deeds during the war should at least shift her up a few ranks, honestly,” Ron complains.

“Weasley, no one is disputing that your girlfriend is a heroine in her own right, but this is precisely what the anonymous judging is supposed to prevent – preferential treatment. According to Miss Granger herself, this competition was conceived to exemplify the blank slate all of us deserve, which will allow us to look ahead towards a better future instead of clinging to the horrors of the past. We should learn from what happened, but at the same time try to practice forgiveness and understanding instead of dispensing judgment.”

There is a moment of baffled silence. “Hermione said that?”

“Honestly, Weasley, did you even read any of the notes we were given before this event?”

“Course I did,” Ron says hastily. “Yes, yeah, of course. All of them. All the…many pages.”

“Eloquent, as always,” Parkinson chirps. “Anyway, Granger at the bottom, followed by a three-way tie between Ernie Macmillan, Draco Malfoy, and the Chosen One himself, Harry Potter…who’s giving me a murderous look right now because he doesn’t like when people call him that, and I definitely was not supposed to.” She winces.

“At the top,” Ron picks up the thread, “resides the one and only Luna Lovegood, whose whimsical approach seems to be paying off. She is followed by the slayer of giant murder-snakes, Neville Longbottom.”

“Honestly, Weasley, ‘murder-snakes’?”

“I stand by my word choice, Parkinson.”

“On that note, let’s get started. Ready!”

“Set!”

“Bake!”

For this round, Harry has found a recipe for something called Spanish apple cake. It features almonds, apples – obviously – and plenty of rum along with the usual cake ingredients, all underneath a crust of simple icing sugar and lemon juice. He races to get the apples diced and soaking in the rum, trying to ignore the hectic rush all around him. Making the cake is less than half the battle for this round, and he needs to focus on it. Otherwise, he won’t have enough time to finish the biscuits and the spellwork that is supposed to help him stand out.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Draco mix his batter with determination. The two of them had talked the evening before, as they’d returned to their common room after dinner.

“Harry, we cannot let this stand! Do you hear me? There is no way either of us will be eliminated this first week, not after all the work we’ve done to get to this point!”

“Well, we aren’t eliminated yet, so calm down, will you?”

“Calm down, he says! Ha!”

“Well, yes, because blind panic doesn’t make for a very good baker, does it. You created a charcoal banana brick that way.”

“Damn you Potter, I thought we were never going to mention that disaster ever again.”

“And I thought you were going to call me ‘Harry’.”

“Not if you mention that abomination.”

Harry grins a bit, thinking back to Draco’s disproportionate outrage and dramatic huffing, which was almost sort of…endearing? He shakes his head, because that can’t possibly be right. Nothing about Draco is endearing.

Well, maybe he is, a little bit. Harry has, after all, spent the better part of the last three weeks with the git, trying to turn him into a baker, and they haven’t tried to kill or maim each other once, which is a massive improvement from…well, anything that happened before eighth year, really. So yes, Draco has something resembling positive qualities, and Harry is confident enough, gracious enough, to admit it.

Besides, he knows Draco would be highly offended at being called endearing, so it’s a win for Harry either way.

With his apple cake in the oven, Harry gets started on his gingerbread dough. It’s tricky business, and he had been reluctant to even use it, but Draco had needled him until he’d agreed to take the risk. He hopes it won’t blow up in his face.

“How are you doing over there?” he asks.

“Been better,” Draco grumbles, and then he yelps very, very loudly. Harry drops his cookie cutter in alarm.

“Fuck,” Draco curses, and Madam Pomfrey rushes over at once to heal the large cut across his palm and siphon up any and all blood before it can contaminate the food. “Don’t fucking distract me when I’m chopping things, Potter.”

“You may want to cover your children’s ears, dear audience,” says Ron.

Harry isn’t sure whether to feel bad about being a distraction, or be upset because he’s clearly being blamed for something that isn’t his fault. In the end, he decides to let it go in favor of focusing on his gingerbread once more. He has decided to cut out far more animal shapes than he actually requires, in case some of them burn in the oven.

“Sorry,” Harry hears just after he takes his apple cake out of the oven and throws the gingerbread in instead. He looks up. Draco is standing at the very end of his bench, as close to Harry as he can be without actually leaving his station, and he is biting his lip.

“Huh?” Harry asks eloquently.

“I’m sorry for snapping. I didn’t mean…I’m just nervous.”

“You’re high-strung,” says Harry.

“I’m competitive.”

“Overly ambitious.”

“I’m a Slytherin, Harry, of course I am.”

“Doing alright though, yeah?” Harry asks.

“It was just a cut, I’ve had far worse. And I think I’m not too far behind right now.”

“Potter and Malfoy appear to be bonding over baked goods,” Parkinson chirps suddenly.

Harry groans.

Time passes shockingly quickly. One moment, Harry carefully tests his gingerbread for doneness, the next he’s got his wand in hand and is putting the finishing touches on his winter wonderland cake. One station over, Draco wipes the sweat from his forehead and casts the same spell Harry is currently using, the one they’d found and practiced together. It creates a miniature breeze just above the cake, small eddies that will lift very light particles and make them dance above the surface of the cake.

Harry will never know what comes over him when they walk to the back of the tent after time has been called. As Draco bumps shoulders with him, Harry snatches his previously injured hand almost on reflex, turning it over and studying the pale red line across the palm.

“Just a scratch, Harry,” Draco says gently.

“Yes, well.” Harry tries to say something, possibly funny or clever, maybe insightful, he’s not picky. But nothing will come out, and so he ends up looking like an idiot with his mouth open and Draco’s hand clutched in both of his own for no good reason.

This round, judging happens a bit differently, as to give their purported masterpieces an opportunity to shine. The stations are cleared away entirely, including the finished cakes, and instead, a black table with a magically illuminated spotlight on it appears in the tent, dead center. Molly and Kingsley are once more announced and walk in looking hopeful. Harry figures that after the mediocrity that was the previous two rounds, they’re dreaming of finally seeing something special.

“It’s time, dear audience,” says Ron. “This is the contestants’ final chance at improving their overall score. As a reminder, the bottom two from this weekend will be eliminated, and the top six will bake once again for us two weeks from now.”

Parkinson leans her head cheekily against Ron’s shoulder, which makes him startle and look alarmed. “The overall winner from this Charity Bake-Off event will receive a guest column in Witch Weekly, an interview on-air at the Wizarding Wireless Network’s Witching Hour, a profile in the Daily Prophet, and a place of honor at the ribbon cutting for the new Young Witches and Wizards Primary Education Center, which is slated to happen in August of this year. As you probably already know, all profits from this event will benefit the War Orphans Fund and the Ascendio Project.”

A hush falls over the crowd as Molly and Kingsley walk up to the black table. There is a sound like a struck gong, and the first cake appears on the table in a swirl of dramatic glitter.

“A summer cake, how lovely,” says Molly, immediately after Parkinson rattles off a detailed description for the listeners on the wireless.

“A beach cake,” says Kingsley. “This is reminding me I need a holiday – but don’t we all?”

 The crowd shouts agreement.

“Lovely spellwork, first of all.” Molly smiles at the colorful beachball tumbling to and fro atop the sand, which Harry very much hopes is not actually sand.

“Whose do you think that is?” Draco whispers in Harry’s ear, his breath brushing Harry’s neck. The sensation it brings forth is peculiar, and Harry can’t quite place it. It’s like he’s suddenly ticklish there, but at the same time he isn’t, and he knows perfectly well that doesn’t make any sense, but he can’t describe it any better than that. 

“I wasn’t paying attention to anyone else,” Harry whispers back.

“Well what good are you then?”

“Hush, you prat.”

In the end, Molly and Kingsley enjoy the lemon cake and sweet biscuit crumb sand, but they’re left a little disappointed that the beach ball decoration isn’t edible. The crowd applauds politely, the cake disappears from the table – to be cut and distributed as soon as judging is done – and another takes its place.

It’s Draco’s, which Harry would have known even without the sharp intake of breath he hears to his immediate right. Ron, amusingly, describes the cake in enthusiastic and complimentary fashion. Harry assumes he’ll wish to get his hands on a time turner as soon as he figures out who made it.

“Now this one is stunning,” says Kingsley. “Rustling leaves, pumpkins…can’t get any more autumn than that.”

“Can we eat these ones?” Molly eagerly reaches out, takes one of the leaves tumbling in the breeze, and pops it in her mouth. “Oh, it’s made of dried apple, such a nice idea. And the pumpkin?”

“Marzipan,” Kingsley says around a mouthful of the very same, having taken a hearty bite.

There are more leaves in all sorts of deep, autumnal shades lying on top of the cake, made from gum paste. Kingsley cuts right through them so they can try a slice of carrot cake and walnut buttercream, which they end up loving. Harry can feel Malfoy practically vibrating with joy.

“Marvelous, simply marvelous,” Molly says happily as the cake disappears. The crowd cheers.

Harry is pretty sure the next cake belongs to Hermione, because he’d heard her ambitiously mentioning mirror glaze, and this cake…has an attempt at one. It’s white, and certainly shiny, but a bit blobby, and the cake is uneven enough that most of it has run off on one side. The poor ice skater probably should have been a snowboarder, Harry thinks as he watches the skillfully animated little figure struggle not to slip off the cake.

“Oh no,” Molly says – clearly upset for whoever this cake belongs to – after she comes across an eggshell while eating the hazelnut cake.

Harry glances at Hermione. She looks like all she wants is to be put out of her misery already.

The next cake has the crowd gasping in amazement and makes Kingsley’s jaw drop. It’s a tiered cake, stacked off-center, sculpted to look like a rocky hill, with a little creek made from sugar syrup flowing from the very top to the bottom through a series of waterfalls. Harry is shocked how much it looks like actual water, and he can’t even begin to imagine which spells it might take to create a moving river that won’t soak into the sponge. Butterflies, made from a delicate sort of edible paper, perch on the cake and flutter their wings.

Molly says it’s the best vanilla cake she’s ever eaten. It’s creative and neat and perfectly executed, and if Harry had to guess, he’d say Padma made the cake – or Luna, possibly – but he isn’t sure.

After another cake that has somewhat sad-looking daisies blooming and closing again, it’s Harry’s turn.

“You just had to one-up me, didn’t you. Tosspot.” Draco sounds miffed.

“Oh shut it, they haven’t even said if it tastes any good yet,” Harry whispers back.

Atop his simple icing that doubles as a blanket of fresh snow, a gingerbread fawn and several bunnies frolic playfully while more snow, made from coconut flakes, dances in the gentle wind. Harry is very proud of it. Even before he hears the comments from the judges, he knows this round went better for him than he could have hoped for. His aim was to recreate the look of a snow globe, and in his opinion, he succeeded.

“This cake,” Kingsley says, then interrupts himself to eat another large forkful. “This cake tastes like every beautiful winter memory I’ve ever had.”

“Apples and ginger and cinnamon,” Molly adds, then pauses and frowns. “Nutmeg, too. Simply marvellous.”

“Merlin, I hate you, Potter,” Draco murmurs. It sounds fond instead of vicious.

After the judging is finished, all the bakers stand ready to receive their total score for the weekend. As it turns out, the Charms Round has allowed both Harry and Draco to make a decent jump towards the top of the leaderboard, and so it’s Ernie who has to say goodbye to the competition, along with – unsurprisingly – Hermione. The two of them bow and wave, and the audience showers them with generous applause.

“It’s almost sad to see the only Hufflepuff in the competition leave so early,” sighs Parkinson.

“Almost?” Ron splutters, offended, Harry guesses, on general principle.

Parkinson ignores him. “Dear audience, we have to say goodbye for today. Please join us again two weeks from now, when Biscuit Week will test our remaining bakers in new and unexpected ways!”