Chapter 7: Digestif

~ Usually partaken away from the primary site of dining, this post-meal beverage is usually drier or starker, than the consumed aperitif. Nonetheless, this digestive assistance is oftentimes touched by an underlying sweetness to assist with the closing of the meal~

Sunday morning was Draco's day of rest. It was the only day of the week that his pâtisserie was closed, his wand muting itself into silence rather than its usual alarm. For that one day a week, Draco rose with the sun, and though it wasn't quite as aromatically tasteful as waking to the scent of baking bread, it certainly had its appeal.

Rays of light filtered around the edges of the curtained window. The warmth of thick blankets, the comfort of an even thicker mattress, was encouragement enough to remain with eyes closed and lazing disregard for the entirety of the day. Every inch of Draco's body felt satisfied, down to the flood of rich scents into his lungs with each breath.

Smells. Something other than that of baking bread. Something salty and… buttery?

Draco blinked his eyes open and immediately rolled his head to the side. He blinked again and, with a start, propped himself up onto his elbows. Another glance around his room, across the expanse of his bed, and he straightened further. But for himself, his bedroom was empty. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

The smells filtering into the room snatched at his attention once more with a renewed whiff. The momentary stuttering of Draco's heart in something that wasn't panic but felt almost like it soothed into relief. Something was cooking in his house, and it wasn't Draco's own magic. Given that entry was forbidden to absolutely everyone else, it could only truly be one person.

Draco rose from the comfortable cocoon of his bed. Pausing only to drag on a pair of slacks, he padded to the doorway and, easing the half-closed door more fully open, squinted into the light beyond.

Harry, it would seem, had opened up the flat to the glory of the morning. It was an almost surreal feeling for Draco. Living alone for years as he had been, wandering into a living room that wasn't quite how he'd left it the night before was… strange. Almost disconcerting.

Irrelevant, however, when Draco turned to his simple kitchen and beheld the true glory morning presented to him.

Darkness had detracted from the wonder, but in the light Draco saw every inch of what had otherwise been hidden from him. Harry, wearing only his own slacks, stood at the stovetop with his bare back towards Draco. The lines of his shoulder blades, the tapering of his waist and the dimples at his lower back, were like the spread of a buffet had Draco been a starving man. The satisfying sufficiency of previous night hardly seemed enough for the sight of him.

Harry's mussed hair was even more so than it had been, and Draco didn't care. The kitchen was a little messy – a bowl left out, a chopping board with a handful of shallots abandoned, a whisk dripping with runny egg – but he didn't care for the moment about that, either. He couldn't find an inkling of protest within himself when Harry, with a muted clatter of metal upon granite bench tops, briefly turned from his saucepan to retrieve a pair of plates from an overhead cupboard. Draco would quite happily watch the play of muscles that tensed and then eased with the simple reaching motion for the rest of the morning.

He was stepping into the kitchen with barely a thought, crossing to where Harry stood without announcing himself. The barest flicker of uncertainty, that maybe sex and passion hadn't changed all that much between then, was disregarded as Draco stepped up behind Harry and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing himself to the warm skin of his back. It wasn't common for him – hell, Draco hadn't had a lover in years – but just as had happened the night before it felt right.

Harry started slightly, not in shock but as though unsuspecting. A small sound of surprise or perhaps welcome was all he uttered before he was twisting in Draco's grasp to face him. His own hands settled upon Draco's hips and almost before he'd fully turned he was leaning forwards to meet Draco's lips with a brief, sweet kiss.

Draco drew away. He had to, because he couldn't help but stare at Harry. He stared for a long moment and Harry didn't speak. Maybe he'd expected Draco's surprise, or maybe he just didn't have anything to say. Maybe, unexpectedly, he was happy with the silence.

Not that it lasted long. "You're wearing glasses," Draco found himself saying.

Harry smiled. His eyes softened behind the lenses that rested atop his nose as an eyebrow rose questioningly. "Is that a bad thing?"

Raising a hand, Draco flicked aside a curl of Harry's fringe. Then he did so again, simply to run a finger across his forehead. Then his fingers grazed through Harry's hair because it felt so good and he would never have thought it but the mess was actually appealing.

And the glasses. Draco hadn't realised how much he'd missed them until Harry wore them once more.

"They're different to those you wore in school," he said, briefly touching the frames.

Harry shrugged. "The old ones were old."

"They're not even round."

"Do they have to be?"

Another graze of fingers through Harry's hair – his wonderfully, unexpectedly soft hair – and Draco leaned forwards to kiss him once more. "No," he murmured. "They always were appalling." He smiled as Harry chuckled against his mouth. "Why are you wearing them?"

"Is that a bad thing too?" Harry asked, an eyebrow rising.

"No," Draco said. Definitely not. "I only wonder why."

Harry hummed into his lips. "They just get fogged up easily when I'm cooking. And God help me if flour gets on the lenses; it can be a bugger to get off."

"But you're cooking now," Draco pointed out. "At an ungodly hour of the morning."

"It's eight o'clock in the morning, Draco."

"On a Sunday."

"That's still not that early."

"Yes it is. It's a Sunday."

"Repeating that fact isn't helping your argument any," Harry said. He stepped backwards from where they were pressed chest to chest, if only slightly. "Hungry?"

Draco wasn't particularly. Or he was, but the necessity of distance required to sit down and dine wasn't something he felt inclined to pursue. But Harry had kissed him, had held him just as Draco had wrapped himself around him first, so the momentary concern had faded. Besides, Draco didn't want to cling. What is Harry didn't want that?

His momentary return of worry evaporated again, however, when they crossed to the dining table. Harry, without comment or ceremony, proceeded to pull the only other chair besides Draco's around the table to sit at his side rather than accept the distance of traditional seating placements. It was so casual, so expected, even, that Draco could only smile.

Or smile wider. He'd hardly realised that a smile had been upon his lips since he'd stepped into the kitchen at all.

The omelette, for such was what it was, appeared nothing if not divine. With a toss of vegetable for a pizza-like array of colours, the visual was glorious, to say nothing of the smell. Had Draco not had a very distracting new lover at his side, he likely would have scarcely been able to suppress the urge to fall upon it immediately.

"You cook," he stated, almost as a question.

Harry shrugged a shoulder – a bare, beautifully smooth shoulder that Draco would have been more than happy to explore with his mouth once more – and nodded. "What gave me away?"

"That's something of an unexpected skill."

"It's unexpected for a baker to be able to cook?"

Draco raised his fork to gesture to himself. "For me? Yes. I use magic."

Harry grinned. "I could have guessed that."

"You could?"

"After a day with no magic allowed, it's kind of a relief to get home and be able to use it as much as you'd like, right?"

The omelette was beckoning him, and Draco wasn't ashamed in the slightest to acknowledge that he was practically salivating. Yet he lowered his fork curiously, frowning slightly as he stared at Harry. "Then why don't you?"

"Hm?" Harry paused with his own fork in his mouth. He swallowed with a questioning tilt of his head. "Why do I cook manually, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Hm…" Harry's gaze dropped momentarily to his plate. "Habit, I guess? I've cooked for years. Back when I still lived with my relatives –"

"Your relatives?" Draco frowned. It didn't take him much to stretch his brain. "You mean your aunt and uncle? Back when you were seventeen?"

"Before that actually." Harry speared another forkful of omelette. "My aunt had me cooking the family meals since I was five."

Draco stared. His omelette with all of its tantalising tastes sat all but forgotten. "She made you help her cook since you were five."

"Yeah," Harry said with a nod. He took a bite with another shrug. "By myself when I proved I knew what I was doing and wouldn't burn the house down with… Draco, what's wrong?"

What's wrong? Draco's hand squeezed his fork was so tightly that the metal all but cut into his fingers. What's wrong, he says. As if he doesn't even realise what's the problem is. As if making a five year old cook the whole family's bloody meals isn't… as if it isn't… "There is so much wrong with that situation that I don't even know where to begin," Draco said flatly.

Harry eyebrow rose curiously. "You're making a bigger deal out of this than needs to be made."

"What?" Draco heard the sharpness in his own voice but he didn't care. It wasn't for Harry anyway, not directed to him. His indignation didn't even fade when Harry smiled crookedly and reached across the table with his free hand. "It's very sweet of you to be so defensive, Draco –"

"I'm not sweet."

"- but it's unnecessary," Harry continued over him. "Besides, I actually like cooking. I guess you could say it inspired me to be a baker, so… I guess it all worked out, right?"

It was wrong. So wrong, and Harry didn't seem to realise that. Draco had questions he wanted to ask, questions that were nearly exclamations of frustration, and only added to those that had been resting with him for days. Harry was a riddle, and wonders – of how he'd died, of an inspiring man in a chocolate shop, of a childhood with relatives that had him cooking for them like a house elf – were just a handful of them. The urge to ask, to all but demand answers, was nearly irrepressible.

Frowning down at his omelette, Draco fought to withhold a hiss, smothering his rising indignation. It would be bad enough had Harry been treated like a house elf when if he and Draco were only friends – or employer and employee, or colleagues, or… or whatever they'd been. But after last night, after what they'd become…

The offence was personal, because Draco realised abruptly that Harry was his as much as he'd become Harry's.

That realisation drew him to a halt. His brewing anger momentarily quelled and he raised his gaze to meet Harry's slightly exasperated expression. "There's a story there," he said lowly, "and I want to hear it."

"Sob stories should be reserved for nights in a drunken stupor, I think," Harry said. He shook his head chidingly. "Seriously, Draco, it's not that bad. And I'm sure you've had worse that you've –"

Draco was on his feet and stepping over the already minimal distance between them. He slid his hands around Harry's face, fingers curling on either side of his jaw, and tipped his head up to face him. "Don't do that," he ordered. "You'll tell me."

"Bossy prat," Harry muttered, and though his hands rose to grasp Draco's wrists he didn't pull himself away from him.

Draco took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly. "Please," he said. "I want to know. All of it."

Whether Harry understood the full weight of Draco's words, he couldn't be sure. Maybe he did. Maybe he saw through Draco as easily as Draco saw through his own words – to the depth, the feeling, the want and the desperate hunger that had sparked alight within him the night before. A hunger that, when Draco truly considered it, had been smouldering within him for years. In a different form, perhaps, but there nonetheless.

Or maybe Harry didn't see anything at all. Maybe, just maybe, he simply wanted Draco as much as Draco found himself wanting in turn. There was certainly desire in his grasp when he reached for Draco and locked his hands around his neck, dragging him down towards him.

Their kiss was as deeply, slowly luxurious as those of the previous night had been deeply, frantically impassioned. The taste of omelette touched Harry's tongue, and it was sweeter than Draco had expected. A little salty, but far sweeter.

Draco's own breakfast lay untouched for some time. There were more important things in his hands, after all. Far more important occupations for his morning. Draco realised as he lost himself in Harry once more that awakening to the smell of baking bread had become a much-loved commonality for Draco. For years he'd considered nothing could possibly surpass it.

That morning, he readily admitted he had been absolutely wrong.

The pâtisserie was quiet at two o'clock on a Monday afternoon. At the handover between Eloise, George and Wilson, that quiet couldn't have fallen at a better hour. The lunchtime rush had dwindled, the last of the very late breakfast attendants departed with coffee and pastry, and the melodious lilt of Draco's particular choice of classical music for that day was a lulling background tune that only emphasised the sleekly refined lines of the pâtisserie itself.

It was the perfect time, Draco had decided, to reveal certain realities to his workers.

"I won't tell Margaret about us," he'd discussed with Harry that morning. "I don't want to give the woman a heart attack or anything."

"I think you're undermining Margaret's resilience if that's your reasoning," Harry replied, smiling slightly around his cup of coffee. That he had coffee at all was only because Draco was forced to store it for his pâtisserie a floor beneath them. Draco himself had always been less than forgiving of the brew, even if he did sell it in his shop.

Surprisingly, however, it didn't irk him quite as much as it once might have. On Monday morning, he found it barely irked at all.

"She's, what, seventy?" Draco said with a sip of his own tea before placing it down upon the dining table.

"Sixty-two, actually," Harry replied with a smirk.

"She looks older."

"No she doesn't. How many sixty-two year olds have you seen?"

"I'm telling you, she looks older."

"She's Muggle. They age faster, apparently."

"That doesn't excuse for – no, stop." Draco held up a hand, briefly closing his eyes. "We're getting distracted."

Harry's damned smile, the one that Draco could now readily admit to all but melting before, spread around the rim of his mug once more. "You love it."

"Arguing?"

"Yes. I've noticed."

"Of course I do," Draco sniffed. "And so do you."

"Of course," Harry echoed, almost to the exact tone. "Why else do you think I picked so many fights with you in school?"

For a moment, Draco met Harry's eyes across the table. He found himself smiling, a wide spreading of his smile that almost ached for how unfamiliar it was. Draco didn't think he'd been happier in his entire life. What a wondrous feeling…

It took a concerted effort – and a sight more time committed to staring – before Draco could drag himself back on track. "Regardless, we're not telling Margret. The kids will be enough."

"Eloise is nearly twenty-four," Harry pointed out.

"She's still a child," Draco countered.

"She's two years younger than you."

"Exactly. A child."

"Wilson's twenty-three –"

"And George is practically a baby."

"He's twenty-one."

"Are you attempting to pick another argument with me?" Draco asked.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. With deliberate slowness, he dropped an elbow to the table top and his chin to his upraised hand. The casual spread of his fingers curling before his lips did nothing to hide his grin. "It won't be an argument if you just concede that I'm right."

"Never," Draco said immediately.

"Tosser."

"I'm the one who's always –"

"You've so much confidence in your justification…"

"Potter –"

"Why, you'd even think that –"

Draco was on his feet and skirting the table in an instant. Their 'discussion' ceased after that, and it was entirely Harry's fault. What followed was not quite an argument, however. Draco had most recently discovered that there were far more interesting exchanges they could engage in with their mouths.

Which was how they found themselves standing before the three kids at two o'clock in the afternoon. The Waterbury wall clock ticked each passing second with almost ominous hollowness.

"There is a subject that has recently arisen that requires discussion," Draco said into the relative quietness.

Wilson blinked emotionlessly. Eloise frowned. But George – the 'baby' George – erupted in a heartbeat. "Am I fired? Is that it? Am I going to be fired, Dray?"

"What?" Draco snapped his gaze towards him. "What in God's name are you –?"

"For whatever I've done, I'm sorry," George said in a rush. His wide eyes darted towards Harry, to Eloise and Wilson, then drew back to Draco. He appeared almost frantic. "I know I suck at baking, mostly, and that I talk a lot, and that sometimes you find me annoying, Dray –"

"Sometimes?" Draco arched an eyebrow.

"- but I'll do better." George didn't even seem to hear him. "I swear I will. I love this job, Dray, I truly do, and it's not just because you let me take a pastry or two home every day though that's very kind of you, or because the pay's great, 'cause it is, but –"

"George, calm down," Harry said, taking half a step forwards. Not far, however. Not far from Draco's side, which Draco was satisfied for. He didn't much want to cross the room to stand before George as he would have to if Harry went himself. "You're not fired. I swear."

"Yet," Draco couldn't help but add.

"Draco," Harry sighed.

Draco smiled. He couldn't help himself. The sigh was one of exasperation but also a little resignation. It bespoke of a long history of acquaintance and a future of further companionship. Draco loved it, and it was the simple joy of the fact that had him still smiling as he turned back to his employees. "George, that wasn't what I was referring to. What I meant was that Harry and I have an announcement of sorts."

George fell into silence with a relieved slump of his shoulders. Eloise's frown grew curious. Wilson only blinked once more – until he spoke. "Is it that you're both wizards?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Draco stared at Wilson. He noted detachedly that Harry turned slowly towards him as well, and Eloise, and George, but he barely heeded them. Wilson was as quietly subdued as ever, almost disinterested, but his gaze drew knowingly between Draco and Harry nonetheless.

"What…?" Harry began before trailing off.

"Wilson, have you gone off your rocker?" George asked. Clearly he'd recovered enough for condescension.

Wilson ignored him. "You've been pretty good at hiding it most of the time, but to someone who knows what to look for it's pretty obvious."

Draco had lost his verbal capacities, couldn't even think of where to look for it, yet somehow he found himself speaking nonetheless. "How did you know that?"

"What?" Eloise said.

"What?" George all but yelped.

Wilson shrugged. "I'm a squib. I thought you knew that.

"You're a – a what?" Eloise asked.

"What the hell is going on?" George said. His eyes were so wide Draco wouldn't have been surprised had they popped from his head.

But he barely noticed that, either. Staring at Wilson, he shook his head slowly. "I didn't know."

Wilson blinked again, a touch of surprise to his otherwise blank expression. "Really?"

Draco shook his head sharply. "Not at all. I was under the impression Merrington was removed from the Wizarding world."

"I heard it was full of all Muggles," Harry added with a nod. "Thus the basis of its appeal.

"What the -?" Eloise stuttered. "What is a Muggle? What -?"

"I'm so confused," George said, raising a hand to scrub at his forehead. "What are we talking about? Is this a joke?"

Wilson ignored them again, for which Draco was grateful. He wanted answers. "It is, for the most part. Except for squibs. And you two, I suppose. Wizards don't live here, really. It's too removed from the Wizarding world, like you said."

"Wait, so, actual wizards," George said slowly. Eloise seemed to have lost her tongue entirely.

Draco stared at Wilson for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned to share a glance with Harry. A silent conversation passed between them, and somewhere inside of Draco that wasn't floored by Wilson's revelation was thrilled for the fact that they could speak without speaking so easily.

This is unexpected.

What do we do?

Do we have to do anything?

I suppose not, but it still changes things.

And it would. Draco and Harry's own revelation hadn't been quite as Wilson had outed them for, but everything would change nonetheless. Abruptly, the afternoon and all those henceforth became flooded with a riot of possibilities that Draco had no idea what to do with.

He disliked when things went out of his control. He disliked them sincerely. It was likely that as much as anything that found him with the urge to reply at all. Take the pegasus reigns into your own hands, his mother had once told him.

Draco turned back to Wilson – to him most specifically, because Wilson had abruptly become significantly more important, the perceptive little shit. "As a matter of fact, that wasn't what I was referring to," he said.

"So… you're not wizards?" George asked slowly.

Draco ignored him. Taking half a step closer to Harry's side, he turned and met Harry's gaze once more. "Harry and I have decided to initiate a relationship. We considered it was best that you know."

Another bout of silence. Another hollowness broken only by the music and the ticking of the clock. That, and Harry's murmured, "Did you have to make it sound so clinical?"

Then it snapped.

"What?" Eloise said.

"What?" George all but shouted.

Wilson sighed. "About time. You've been practically eye-fucking for weeks.

The eruption that followed wasn't unexpected, even if Wilson's demonstration of perceptiveness once more certainly was. Draco stood at Harry's side throughout the chorus of questions from Eloise and George, the congratulations, even, and he endured.

The discussion had taken an unexpected turn, perhaps, and the peppering of those questions was far from appreciated, but Draco felt nothing short of satisfaction for the announcement. Enough to allow Harry to link hands with him in a way that Draco had never held hands before as they weathered what was primarily George's verbal assault.

With Harry's hand warm in his own, Draco realised hadn't quite known what he'd been missing out on.

"Well, that didn't go quite as planned."

"Did we plan it? Did we actually plan anything at all other than that you were going to tell them?"

"That, Harry, is a plan unto itself."

Sitting in the shopfront, sipping his tea as always and listening to Wilson cleaning as he always did, it was familiar. The pâtisserie smelled the same, looked the same, sounded the same, with Chopin adding his pianist utterances to the calming afternoon air. The same – and yet entirely different.

Because Draco sat at his usual table, and across from him sat Harry.

After Eloise and George had been calmed – and after they'd both been thoroughly convinced that it wasn't some wild prank for both revelations – the afternoon had smoothed remarkably easily. Eloise had been wide-eyed in wonder for the magic that Harry had shown her, and George seemed to have short-circuited somewhere along his way to understanding the changed nature of Draco and Harry's relationship.

But it had smoothed.

Draco ideally wouldn't have had any of the kids know he was a wizard, but in many ways it made everything easier. Much easier, especially to explain the wealth of baked goods from Saturday night that had only been briefly hidden by magic that morning.

It was good. Fine. No, it was more than fine. Excellent was a better word to describe how Draco felt, and not just because of the revelation to the kids. It wasn't just because the morning had passed with surprising efficiency and maximum fluidity. Not because magic somehow felt suddenly more allowed, nor because he'd tried some of Harry's baklava from Saturday night and it had been about the most delicious thing he'd ever eaten. It wasn't even because Wilson had stepped forth with surprising supportiveness to ease the transition for the two ignorant Muggles.

It was, Draco realised, mostly because Harry sat across from him. Draco was… happy.

Harry was even then simply sitting, hand draping over his own teacup of actual tea this time, and shaking his head slightly as he watched Wilson across the room. The smile that played on his lips looked like it might even be more delicious than his baklava. "It could have certainly gone worse, I suppose."

"It could have," Draco said.

"I mean, its not like we'll be able to use magic in broad daylight or anything –"

"Not in Merrington," Draco agreed, and Harry nodded his understanding. To use magic openly in Merrington would just feel… wrong.

"Right. And it's not like it'll change anything in the kitchen either."

"Baking with magic defeats its purpose," Draco said with a nod of his own.

Harry hummed his agreement. He regarded Wilson where he cleaned with no more or less enthusiasm than usual, and propped his chin upon an upraised hand. "So… what now?"

Draco settled back into his chair slightly. He considered Harry, pondering, and for all of the contentedness, the satisfaction, the fulfilment and yes, the happiness, he couldn't help but wonder. What would happen now?

Draco had his pâtisserie .

He had his apprentice who was a damn sight better than anyone he could have chosen.

He had his hodge-podge family of sorts that he would never admit to thinking of as a real family.

The peaceful isolation of Merrington, the safety, the comfort of a world away from witches and wizards – Draco had all of that, and he couldn't think of anything he could possibly want more.

The fear of it all changing as he knew it would, of more change that he didn't want this time, and didn't feel the need for, was paramount. And mostly, that fear centred around Harry.

Their weekend had been a series of blissful moments interspersed with passion. Maybe Draco truly was sex-deprived and hungry for it, but he didn't think that was the only reason it had been the best weekend of his life. That it was with Harry, who he'd hardly even considered a possibility when he'd allowed himself to consider it at all, was impossibly wonderful. Half a day spent in bed, while the other half was consumed by lazing upon the couch or following Harry's instruction in how to cook an actual meal by hand; Draco didn't mind taking the role of the learner in that instance, anyway. Even better when they'd shared the meal after with the use of far too many fingers and tongues that was entirely necessary.

Sharing, Draco was gradually growing to realise, might not be such a bad thing after all.

It had been perfect. Too perfect. Draco wasn't a pessimist, but he was realistic enough to know that perfection had a way of escaping him. Happiness too. It always would.

"I think," he began slowly, then had to pause to swallow. To clear his throat. To frown and drop his gaze to his teacup that held about as much appeal in that moment as a soggy éclair. "I think what happens next really depends on you."

Draco felt Harry's gaze turn towards him. He could almost see his stare, his beautiful eyes peering from behind their glasses. After Draco had professed a sorely embarrassing taste for them, Harry had obliged him in wearing them that afternoon without a hint of teasing.

Or maybe a bit of a hint. Maybe more than a bit. "Who knew you actually liked them when you poked shit at me all those years, Draco," Harry had said.

"Shut up, you bespectacled git," had been all Draco could say in reply, a retaliation that was somewhat lessened in severity by the ready acceptance of the kiss Harry smothered him with a moment later.

Draco couldn't look at Harry as he spoke in admission of his thoughts, because he feared Harry would see how unnerved he suddenly was. No, not unnerved but scared. Draco was scared.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well." Draco struggled for casualness that he knew he failed at attaining dismally. "I'm under no allusions that your lodgings at the Chuckling Cupid around the corner are temporary."

"What?" Harry said, his tone nothing if not baffled.

Draco glared at his tea. "Permanent residency would of course be desirable, but if you're of a mind that you're not to be staying indefinitely then –"

"Wait, wait, wait. What?"

When Harry reached a staying hand across the table, Draco couldn't help but glance towards him. He darted his gaze upwards, met Harry's eyes, and was momentarily lost. When had he become so pathetic? Once upon a time he would have demanded Harry stay after the obvious affection they'd shared that weekend. He'd have all but ordered it. And yet here he was, all but pleading as he reached for and held onto Harry's offered hand. "You," Draco said. "I'm not going to keep you here if you –"

"You don't want me to stay?" Harry interrupted him.

"What?" Draco frowned, suddenly vexed. "Where the bloody hell did you get that idea? At what point between the fucking and bloody – bloody cuddling did you think -?"

Harry rolled his eyes as he squeezed Draco's hand in a silencing gesture. "Well, it kind of sounded like you expected me to go."

"You won't?"

Harry squeezed his hand again, though differently this time. Gentler, almost, and warmer. Reassuring. Draco found himself easing just slightly before he could help himself. "Draco," Harry said deliberately. "I'm not going anywhere."

"For now?" Draco couldn't help but ask. The barest quaver in his voice was humiliating.

"For now," Harry said. "And not for a good long while, either. Not when you want me around. Why do you think I'm here in the first place?"

Draco blinked. "What?"

"Why do you think I even came to Merrington?"

"I was under the impression it was for a job interview."

Harry smiled slightly, his fingers playing absently with Draco's own in a frankly distracting manner. "Yes, but aside from that. Your job offer was hardly the most appealing of the selection out there."

Draco frowned, pressing his lips firmly together. "If it's so objectionable then you could just –"

"It was because of you."

That served to silence Draco quite well enough. "I… what?"

"Yeah." Harry smiled slightly wider, yet it seemed more to himself than to Draco. He briefly dropped his gaze to the table between them. "How could I not be interested in Dray Malloy the pâtissier? An idiot wouldn't put two and two together about your name, or at least wonder."

Draco wasn't embarrassed. Or not really, anyway. More correctly, he wasn't embarrassed at that moment because every ounce of his attention was focused upon Harry and the suggestion of his words. Harry had come for him? For Draco Malfoy – or Dray Malloy – as much as for the job itself?

A strange tightness afflicted his chest, and Draco found himself squeezing Harry's hand in return. "You were curious," he said slowly.

"I needed a change," Harry agreed more than corrected. "And I guess you were a convenient possibility?" He shrugged. "I can't say curiosity is exactly why I stayed, though."

Draco's mind was jumping and shorting in unveiled wonder. Harry had come to Merrington for him? For Draco? For the same curiosity that had driven Draco to hire him in the first place? It seemed almost too good to be true. Too perfect. "You…"

"I'm staying, Draco," Harry said. "And it's not just because I really like you. It's not just 'cause we have great sex, which would be enough to convince most people, anyway."

Draco couldn't deny that. Even in his confusion and wonder he didn't want to. He still had his pride. "Then…?"

"I've known it for a while, now, that I would be," Harry continued. "But last week? With your Peace-Of-Me Charm?" He shook his head, his smile becoming a touch self-deprecating. "The fact that your charm put me right where I baked almost every day of the week wasn't as surprising as it probably should have been. Still, I didn't realise how caught up in your stupid Merrington web I was until then."

"What exactly do you mean?" Draco asked, even if he thought he could already guess. He simply longed to hear it.

"You," Harry said simply. "When you cast your charm, it was for you and yours. You ridiculously clean pâtisserie –"

"That you do your utmost to make a mess of," Draco muttered, if somewhat breathlessly.

" – your workers and how they're so dedicated to you without you seemingly even noticing –"

"My bloody incompetent workers, you mean?"

"- your recipes that are actually a stroke of genius –"

"You admit it now?"

" – and you."

Draco had nothing to say to that last one. "Me," he echoed in a sigh.

Harry idly raised Draco's hand to his cheek, pressing Draco's fingers to his warm skin in such casual fondness that Draco was rendered speechless all over again. "Mm. You. I've been to a lot of places, Draco, but this one? This is the only place I've felt…"

Harry didn't finish his words. He didn't need to. He probably wouldn't have gotten the chance to either, for Draco was rising to his feet with a disregarded clatter of his chair and all but flinging himself across the table. He captured Harry's head in his hands and was drawing him into a kiss desperate and longing. He was so utterly, wonderfully, lovingly ecstatic that Draco almost couldn't contain himself. Not magic, not even baking, could possibly feel so good.

Draco, he decided, had never wanted for anything more in his life.

Wilson's deliberately cleared throat didn't quite shatter the scene, but it was enough to draw Draco's away from Harry just slightly. "If you're going to suck each others faces off, at least but a magical wall around you or whatever."

When had Wilson become so crude? Was he always like that and his quietness just hadn't revealed it?

Not that Draco really cared. He was far more focused upon Harry, to where Harry's gaze stared up at him, so open and soft and unlike yet similar to the boy he'd once been such fierce rivals with. So much had changed in the past few weeks. Even in the last few days. Draco decided that, should nothing else ever change again, he would be entirely satisfied with it.

"So you're staying?" he murmured, fingers curling around Harry's head, into his hair, and holding him nothing if not a little desperately.

Harry's smile, his gorgeous smile, widened further. "I'm staying."

Draco snorted, closed his eyes, and momentarily dropped his forehead against Harry's. The feel of Harry, the smell of him and what he could almost taste at such proximity, was intoxicating. Harry's words rung in his ears, and Draco couldn't think of a sound he more longed to hear.

Then Wilson cleared his throat once more. The bloody boy splintered the moment, and Draco couldn't help but glare at him sidelong. He wasn't even looking their way, seeming nothing if not intent upon scrubbing the windows of the front display counter. "Wilson," Draco said flatly. "Pretend you're more of an oblivious fool than you already are for a moment."

"Yes, sir," Wilson replied in a monotone.

"And don't turn around."

"Sir."

"Pretend you don't know what magic is."

"Already done, sir."

Draco straightened just slightly. He removed a hand from Harry only enough to draw his wand from where it was always holstered to his forearm. "I have to just try," he murmured to himself. "I have to, because if it doesn't work now then nothing in the world could possibly work."

"What?" Harry asked, head tipping in confusion.

Draco didn't reply but to raise his wand. With the feel of Harry's hair slipping through his fingers, the warmth in his own chest, the actual, true fondness in Harry's curious gaze as it rested upon him, Draco cast the spell he'd avoided attempting for years.

And it worked.

Wisps of gossamer white danced to life in the centre of his shop that so rarely saw magic. It swirled, bright and white, coalesced and morphed. Draco heard Harry's breath sharply inhale, heard him sigh it out again in wonder, but for that one instance he didn't turn towards him. Draco's attention was firmly affixed upon the Patronus rapidly curling into corporeal form.

"You know," he all but whispered, "I could have almost guessed it would take such a form."

The wolf was familiar. Identical, almost, to the one that Harry had showed Draco barely more than a week ago. Pale and a little ragged, yet proud and defiant in its broad-chested stoicism. It turned equally pale eyes upon Draco in what Draco, for whatever reason, felt was somehow approving.

A Patronus charm. An actual Patronus. Draco almost couldn't believe he'd cast one at all. But then again, with how he felt at that moment…

He heard more than saw Harry reach for his own wand, and felt more than heard him murmur his own incantation. His fingers tightened where they still rested in Harry's hair, almost clutching as the identical form of a raggedy wolf stepped into existence beside his own.

They were beautiful in their company, the two of them. Not quite so lonesome in a pair, and it was a whole new kind of perfect.

"Well, if that's not an admission of your guilt," Harry murmured.

Draco glanced towards him. Harry had turned his gaze upwards once more, was smiling with what was more of a delighted grin, and shaking his head fondly. "Guilt?" Draco said. "Hardly. More an announcement of intentions to keep what is mine."

"Possessive much?" Harry asked.

"Only always."

"Then I can stay? You're not going to fire me?"

It was a teasing suggestion, but Draco twitched in repulsion of the thought nonetheless. He wanted to vehemently deny such a possibility, but instead settled for grasping Harry's head with both hands again and pressing another short, forceful kiss upon his lips. "Hell, Harry, you can have a whole half of my flat for as long as you want it, to say nothing of your job."

Harry laughed against his lips, breath whispering into Draco's mouth. "Should I be concerned that you'll treat your future apprentices this way?"

What future apprentices? Draco wanted to say. That, and Why would I possibly want anyone else in my flat but you?

But he didn't. Draco didn't say either of that and the urge to tease, to reprimand, to chide pompously and smirk his superiority with a witty retaliation, were for once absented too. It was likely because he was infatuated, Draco rationalised. He'd regain his senses in several day's time, he knew, even if he similarly knew that he wouldn't release his hold of Harry in the process.

But for now, Draco was more than happy to vanquish any such illusions of future annoyances and past oversights Harry might have. In the middle of the patisserie, Chopin's piano and the aroma of baked goods a melody upon the senses, and Wilson studiously ignoring them both, Draco gave in entirely.

"Harry, I think we both know that you were never just an apprentice."

A/N: Thank you so, so much for reading! I hope you liked it :D If you did - I mean, I hesitate to promote my own work, but my story After the War was written very much with this story in mind, so if you're interesting in the preceding that led Harry to where he was in this fic, please feel free to check it out.

Also, please, please, PLEASE let me know if you did like this story it with a review, or if you had any thoughts. I'd love to hear absolutely anything you have to say!

Thanks again, wonderful reader. I appreciate the dedication of your time and hope you liked it as much as I did writing it :)