Hello, everyone! Since I've been more into KHR this past year and totally unmotivated to write anything for the HP fandom, I've decided to compromise and do a crossover instead. Hopefully, this will draw me back into the HP-verse. Something important to note:

1) This is a rather slow-paced slice of life with a plot. Lots of focus on Harry and the Arcobaleno (LAL AND BERMUDA INCLUDED because no one appreciates them T_T) as well as Daniela, Kawahira, Xanxus, Daemon, and a few others. If you like stories with no bashing and a low-key BAMF but not rude or self-righteous Harry who accidentally fixes some mafia crises and maybe destroys a famiglia or two, making a mean chocolate lava cake all the while, this might be right up your alley. Just please keep in mind that this story's genre is Family/Friendship and not Action/Adventure for a reason.

2) On the HP side of things, this is canon-compliant... except boy do things go differently after Voldemort kicks the bucket. There are changes to the KHR world, which include some characters living longer for a reason that will be explored in the story. Also, this fic is based on the manga. So, yeah, the information revealed in the anime filler arcs is mostly irrelevant here.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1. The Town of Riccardo

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I have been in love and been alone

I have travelled over many miles to find a home

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"This... isn't red."

At the sound of Ron's broken-hearted voice Harry is pretty damn tempted to redo his new bakery on the spot. Not because of the utter desolation in his tone or the despair on his face, but because Ron has repeated this for literally fifty times in the last minute, slyly using the fact that Hermione is busy finishing up the charmwork on the ceiling. He is trying to wear Harry down into compliance.

It almost works.

Harry glowers at his friend. It's either this or hurling whatever he's holding at the redhead. Since he is holding a lamp, Ron probably won't appreciate that.

"It... still isn't red," Ron says again.

He looks more miserable than a disgruntled cat hopping out of a bathtub full of water. Harry's hands clench tighter around his lamp. But damn, it's a nice lamp. Fragile, too. Ron's head is made of iron and will survive the impact, but Cho and Ginny will bitch if they have to hunt down something else. They pretend they don't enjoy Italy's awesome flea markets.

"For God's sake, Harry, will you set this lamp down? You've been holding it for the last ten minutes."

"But Hermione! He's so annoying! I can't believe he's moping co much just because I haven't put any Gryffindor colours here. Which, I think, is understandable after living for nine years surrounded by red and gold."

He doesn't count their camping-out year, of course, but he does include the time spent at the Weasleys' house and their extra eighth year of school... the whole idea of which Harry, quite frankly, still finds unfair. He'd won a war for them and they, what, put him back in school?

He didn't almost die just to get an Acceptable on his History exam.

Hermione sighs.

"All right, I'm done." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and beams at Harry, inviting him to look up.

She's charmed the ceiling to look like night-time sky, all starry twinkles across a canvas of dark blue.

Flying just under it…

Is Hedwig.

Harry's heart thumps. It's a little difficult to breathe.

"Hello, girl," he says. He stretches his hand, and when she hoots and perches, he almost cries. When she looks at him with gentle, wise yellow eyes and nibbles on his finger like she used to… He shakes his head. Pretends his tears are just water. "It's been so long, huh?"

He folds her into a hug. Tenderly. Carefully. The way he used to during those cold and lonely nights in a barred room with only his dark thoughts for company, staring through the figments of his window at the unwelcoming lights of neighbouring homes.

Of course, this isn't his real owl. Hedwig's body died on that fateful day, eight years ago.

But she lives on. In his memories, she's always there. Harry has never been as happy about having magic as he is now, holding the ghostly form of his familiar to his chest like a teddy bear.

He mentally thanks Andromeda again for inventing this spell. Basically, it's a mix of the Patronus Charm and the memories you draw from your mind to put into a Pensieve. Andromeda has never truly come to terms with her daughter's death, nor her son-in-law's. She's invented this for Teddy so he can move on where she doesn't.

Harry's friends give him a moment. Hermione tactfully organises the parchments and documents in her bag – they've both come here immediately after work – while Ron's ears are red and he glances awkwardly around like he always does when someone expresses feelings.

Harry gives Hedwig a little nudge, and she flutters up, then around his café.

"I hope you approve," Harry tells her gently, watching as she perches on a bookshelf. "We might be sticking here for a while."

"Of course you're sticking here for a while," Hermione cuts in. Her hair frizzes indignantly despite those layers of Sleakeazy she rubs into them every morning before work. "We didn't go through all this trouble to find you a house you actually like just for you to suddenly disappear off elsewhere... did we?"

Glowering, she dares him to say something. Harry raises his hands in surrender.

"When have I ever disappeared?"

Ron stares, unimpressed. Harry pouts. And these people call themselves his friends? No faith at all.

"I hope you have examined all the materials I've left you on how to manage a business. I've made your research for you and compiled everything into neat categories that will get your bakery booming – without explosions for once, I hope. It's just a little bit of light reading. You will find everything you need to know in those folders, from recommended prices to instructions regarding the accounting side of your trade, to tips, to biographies of successful-"

Ron mouths, "Stop her!"

As soon as Hermione learnt that Harry would open a bakery, she gathered a bunch of reading materials summing up to two thousand pages, all topped with a passive-aggressive note to read or else. The 'or else' usually implies that she will look at him with disappointed eyes and rant. And maybe give him a knitted hat with a SPEW badge.

Two thousand pages of pure torture or a twenty-minute rant and a cool hat?

Hermione still fails to understand that her opinion on what light reading is doesn't coincide with that of simple mortals'.

"I've read it! All, um, two thousand twenty-five pages," he lies.

Hermione huffs and crosses her hands on her chest, which, coupled with the cumbersome robes she's wearing as a promotion of some muggleborn business, makes her look like Hedwig's brown-feathered sister.

"It's two thousand three hundred and five pages."

Ron whistles, while Hedwig's eyes grow somehow bigger. She hoots in horror.

"I just hope you're not expecting me to make smart business decisions? I mean, hello. I'm here on a break. To have fun. How do I have fun when I've got taxation to think about?"

"We poor mortals manage somehow," Ron mutters with a long-suffering look but it lacks the malice and jealousy that would have marred it a decade ago.

"That aside," Hermione intervenes with a frown on her face, "while I'm incredibly happy that you're actually taking the time to rest… Harry, are you going to abandon your job? That would be such a shame! You're incredible at it, and I know you love what you do!- And there is no guarantee that this will even work!- So please don't stop your projects just because Luna-"

"Whoa, stop, stop, stop right here!" Harry laughs and bumps his best friend on the shoulder. "No one's abandoning anything. My job... Is something that I am proud of, for once. There is actually quite the impressive reading and research list waiting for me upstairs! It's going to take me a while to dig myself out of all this backlog I've got going on. And once I've run out of everything I have here to study and improve, Florence is a quick broom ride away."

"That's bloody awesome." Ron nods energetically. "Anyway, mate, if anyone's giving you trouble here, I'm just a mirror-call away. Uncle Ron will show 'em!"

Hermione lets out a long, long sigh.

"They are muggles, Ronald. You can't exactly take out your wand and start waving it around – which you should know since your father AND your brother work in the Department of Muggle Affairs!"

"Ha. Joke's on you because I'm not gonna use my wand. Gotta say that a kick in the balls hurts just the same. And it's totally muggle-friendly!"

Harry is pretty sure there is nothing friendly about kicking someone where it hurts, which means Ron's mixing up the terminology again, but he decides to tease Hermione instead of pointing it out.

"Wow. Fifteen years and my girl Hermione is finally a real witch, thinking of how to solve things with magic first." Harry wipes an invisible tear. "What happened to 'OH RON BUT THERE IS NO WOOD HERE WHERE DO I GET THE WOOD'?"

"Savage." Ron grins, and they bump fists like true bros.

"Ouch!" Harry snatches his hand away and rubs his knuckles. "What the heck, Ron? Are you on steroids? Do steroids even do that? It hurt!"

"Oh. Um. Sorry, mate." Ron laughs awkwardly and rubs the back of his head. "Kinda forgot to Finite that strength-enhancing spell. We're all very into physical fitness now at the Auror Department. And by physical fitness I mean we spell the hell out of ourselves whenever we're on a mission."

"Ouch," Harry repeats. "Parkinson is one heck of a slave-driver. Something tells me she wanted that Head Auror position just out of sadistic inclinations."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Hermione snarks, her voice cool. "I am astounded she has not attempted to sell out anyone at the Department yet. With her record."

Harry winces.

Hermione does not forgive. It is this trait, rather than her amazing knowledge, that Harry is jealous of sometimes.

Ron, however, shakes his head.

"She's a pretty good boss. Bloody hell, can't believe I'm saying THIS. Plenty more good than those other options, anyway. Fuck, I'd have gone right out the door had Bones appointed Cormac McLaggen on the post."

Coughing, Hermione hides her face. Without even scolding Ron about his language. She doesn't want to admit McLaggen exists – Harry doesn't judge her. That guy still sends her lusty stares, and last they saw each other, Harry was treated to the charming sight of McLaggen making out with his ice-cream at Fortescue's in vain hopes Hermione would look there.

Yep, definitely erase that from his memory.

"What about you, Ron?" Harry asks. "What about all that prestige? Fame and glory?"

"And deal with the paperwork every bloody day?" Ron barks in laughter before shoving his elbow into Hermione's side, to her annoyance. "Nah. I'm pass. I'll leave the fame and glory to Parkinson and spend more time on things that truly matter."

With a bright red flush that would put a fire hydrant to shame, Ron quickly pecks Hermione on the cheek before coughing awkwardly and looking anywhere but his two friends.

Harry smirks, and even Hermione can't hide a smile.

"Congratulations, Ronald. Your emotional range has officially evolved from a teaspoon to a tablespoon."

"Aww, he's blushing again. What happened to my brave friend who snogged the lights out of Hermione when we were all in the middle of something? The guy who dredged up the courage to declare to Molly that he will – oh horror! – be sleeping in the same room as his bride – how old were you then, twenty-one?"

"Twenty and nine months," Ron grumbles.

They all continue in the same vein because this is the last time they will be able to meet each other for a while. Harry is already shocked and flattered that they have been visiting every day, helping him settle the paperwork and furnish his house. Their jobs, however, are calling.

After they've left, Harry sits in his café for a while, just devoting time to Hedwig. She doesn't fly around. Rather, she hovers over him for hours, watching as he ticks off which recipes he's going to use the next day, as he makes his first batch of pastries, as he walks around and repositions tables, and flowers, and jars with tea leaves. His familiar accompanies everything with soft, gentle croons.

She is not truly real, but it feels like she has missed him, too.

"It's just you and me, then, Hedwig?" he asks. Lets her nip his finger, although of course a gust of magic cannot hurt him. "Like always?"

Will it forever be like this? He wonders.

But he lives in a world where Pansy Parkinson is a Head Auror bringing Dark Magic users to justice, where Ron prioritises people over recognition, and where Hermione lets him talk badly of a book once a year.

So many things are changing, so many people, that Harry cannot help but hope that this change will come to him, too. If his owl's presence makes believing easier, well, it's no one's business but his own.

Like most things in his life, Harry's bakery is a collective work.

Luna is the one to name his café, since the only names Harry is capable of are 'Bakery', 'Bakeshop', and 'Bakehouse'. Or 'Firebolt', which is not better. Seems like Hedwig's name was the single burst of inspiration in his life, and now whoops. The well is dry. If Harry had a kid, he'd probably name them something ridiculous, like 'Lily Luna' or 'Lily Hermione' for a girl and 'James Sirius' or 'James Remus' for a boy. The pinnacle of his creativity would be 'Albus Severus', and that's if he is very inspired.

...Actually, it's a good thing he doesn't have a kid.

Ron tried to chip in, but his suggestions ended up along the lines of 'Defeating Voldemort Since 1981'. That's a bit of a mouthful neither Harry nor muggles are ready to see every day.

Now, the sign outside proudly proclaims 'The Midnight Snorkack' in English. The letters of gold glitter (courtesy of the Sticking Charm) are carved into the signboard painted black. A small emblem of metal, the logo, hangs below. It vaguely looks like an owl mid-flight, but only if you have a good imagination and if this owl really wants to be a unicorn. Little stars circle it.

That's pretty much all Harry allowed Luna to do. The interior was handled by someone else.

"Here, the blueprints. Run wild with those," is what he said, and what Cho and Ginny did.

His café is mostly done in navy blue and pastel yellow. The girls insisted on pure white, but Harry would simply be too scared to touch anything, let alone work there. Besides... Pristine white tables bring up bad memories, and he is twenty five, almost. He is a big boy now. It's time to leave Aunt Petunia's kitchen.

There is a bookshelf opposite the displays and the till, and it contains the muggle books and newspapers Hermione and Andromeda have chosen for him as well as a wicker basket full of drawing supplies for children or adults who would want to kill time and hang around. Teddy has shared his crayons, pencils, albums, and colour paper.

The starry ceiling flows seamlessly into the walls, and there is a golden tree spreading its painted branches on one of them, glittering in the distance. It's not simple paint: Hedwig can actually enter the walls and the star-littered ceiling, roaming the expanses, perching upon the branches of gold whenever she wants to stay still.

This is a detail Harry chose himself.

"At least in death you will have the freedom to fly without restraint, like you never could in life."

He can give his familiar this.

The bakery is small, inside there is only enough room for a few round tables accompanied by chairs with differently-patterned cushions, as well as a high table in front of the large window by the door. It's not like he imagined when the thought of opening a bakery first struck him, but the floor is of warm wood, and Hedwig is here, and everyone he knows has gifted him with a reminder of how loved he is.

"Th-this is a very pretty café," his last customer of the day stammers out. His ears are flaming red. "A-a-and your walnut ca-cake is so good I c-c-could die."

"Ah, I hope not," Harry replies calmly, wrapping the large order. His second day, and he sells out everything before it's even two p.m. "Who would buy it, then?"

He smiles, and it works like a double whammy on the poor soul. The guy whispers something like "H-he smiled at me!" and just... drops.

Harry winces when the body hits the floor.

This isn't the first time it happened. Not even the second. Luckily, Harry has already developed an algorithm of sorts. He sighs. His hands push the packaged pastries and bread to the side.

"Excuse me, could you please?.." he asks the couple of men standing nearby, incapable of finishing the sentence but simply gesturing at the body.

They perk up. They have been standing here for the last three hours just for this purpose, and they're not the first ones to show this type of behaviour. Someone is always standing awkwardly in the corner near the painted tree. Sometimes they take a book from the bookshelf and flip through, sometimes a newspaper is put to the same use, while other times people just... watch the wall. Harry hopes they find a secret of the universe there. Otherwise it's a lot of wasted effort for a plain wall.

Thankfully, there is only one body this time. It's put away quickly. If these people seem a bit too used to storing bodies in the corner, well. Harry believes it's too early in their acquaintance to asks questions.

He still makes a mental note to put up some stronger wards around his house. Just in case.

Harry hums a catchy tune he's once heard on the magical wireless as he pulls out a tray of blueberry biscuits with lemon glaze. He has a few minutes until he opens the café, which he uses for some finishing touches. He's tempted to use some of those secret recipes from the cookery book Minerva shared with him, but it's better to put those off until the weekend. For now, he'll take the well-trodden path and cook the things that Molly's taught him.

As always, a horde is waiting for him outside, crowding the little stairway leading up into his shop. Why? Why do people here act like he's a godly being they want to touch and revere?

It's strange, but even more strange is the fact that none of them rush in as soon as he opens the door.

At least, the answer for this is granted soon.

"I see you're settling well," comes a voice from the doorway, distracting him from his task.

Harry blinks when he sees the woman. His contact told him she would come at some point, but it's strange seeing her in reality and not through a conjured image.

Daniela, his contact called her. Daniela Vongola.

In many ways she reminds him of Minerva. A lady with quite a few decades tucked under her belt but whom you can never call 'old' or 'elderly' because she's brimming with life, with vitality, and isn't afraid to show it through scathing remarks or a good old whack to the head. A woman who knows her place in the world. Who is satisfied by it.

Vines and twirls of a flower tattoo hide in the creases on the left side of Daniela's face. Her white hair is gathered in a high ponytail (it's almost jarring to not see a strict bun instead) and she wears a jumpsuit of an orange so bright and brilliant it's almost red.

She looks strict, yet it's not the cold and unforgiving severity of Snape but something milder, gentler, and there is a mischievous spark in her brown eyes that waits to be ignited.

Daniela glances at Harry's badge even though he's certain she knows his name just like he knows hers.

"It's such a pleasure to have you here, Mr Harry Potter," she greets him with a smile. She says his name in an Italian manner, with an aspirated 'H' and strong 'r's. It sounds charming.

She speaks to him in English, however. Harry could sigh in relief because what idiot told him that Italian would be easy to learn?

"Just 'Harry' is fine. And shouldn't I be the one saying that?" he shoots back, raising an eyebrow at her companion, because of course she doesn't come alone.

The man that accompanies her... Well. Harry has enough experience of working with people to discern two things: (1) one of his arms is prosthetic, and (2) he can move with incredible grace... but is too unmotivated to do that now. So, the black-clad, black-haired stranger stands there, a couple of steps behind Daniela, like an awkward blur of blackness. He's aged, his face dignified like of a gentleman's of old, but he dresses in leathers, and buckles, and gothic accessories like a teen in the edgy phase.

He looks sullen and uncomfortable, as if all he needs is a hood that he'll plop on and draw the strings tight, hiding his face from the world. The thought amuses Harry; he misses half of Daniela's words.

"-chocolate-banana cake certainly looks enchanting, doesn't it, Tyr?" she finishes, sighing dreamily at the display. Subtly, she smirks at Harry; she guesses he wasn't listening, but doesn't call him out.

The man with her, Tyr, grunts. His face doesn't change at all.

"No? Then what about the vanilla tarts? I could very well do with one myself."

There's a frown this time.

Harry blinks. Wow. It's almost like watching someone try to have an intelligent, human conversation with Uncle Vernon.

Daniela, however, seems to understand him.

"Brilliant. Then, I would like a slice of this beauty-" She points at the chocolate-banana cake."-as well as one vanilla tart." She throws a look at her companion. "Five vanilla tarts."

Tyr's frown vanishes. Harry wishes he could read people as well.

"All right. Anything to drink?"

Squinting at the blackboard behind him, Daniela gasps.

"Oh no. Please tell me you have something warm that isn't tea."

"Not a fan?"

"The only people who drink tea in our day and age are nationalists and stressed-out nutcracks with issues."

Harry's pretty certain this statement is rude, uncalled for, and fifty shades of incorrect.

"You... have a lot of opinions on tea."

"Once - once! - do I tell my right hand that tea helps me de-stress. I did it because she is my Guardian, and you would know how it is with them. And now guess what? She has been drowning me in tea for sixty years," the woman hisses out with a spark of orange in her eyes and an irritated gesture.

Tyr's lips quirk 0.0009th of a degree upwards.

"You could talk to her- Oh wait. Let me guess. She gives you the puppy eyes?" Harry asks, leaning forward on his elbows. He's fallen prey to this deadly technique more times than he cares to count. Now, if he senses someone trying to pull that on him, he uses his go-to method: he blasts them with a fainting spell right into sweet oblivion.

And voila!

No one can do puppy eyes when they're unconscious.

"Indeed she does," Daniela agrees with a mournful nod. Should he share his secret with the poor woman?

"Ouch. Anyway, it's not JUST tea. I've got coffee here, too!" Harry bends down to rummage around the closest cupboard and digs up two tins of instant coffee and a box of cappuccino packets. He raises his trophies victoriously. "Tada!"

Daniela is not impressed. Tyr's lips quirk a whopping one degree downwards.

"Instant coffee. Really. Things are that depressing?"

Harry sighs and puts his load down. What's wrong with instant coffee? All his other customers are perfectly fine with it! Besides, Hermione drinks this stuff whenever she has to deal with annoying people, which is always. Well, he has told her to stay away from Ministry jobs if she's allergic to stupidity. All people's problems stem from the fact that they never listen to their good ol' friend Harry.

"You're a hard lady to please," he complains. Seriously, finding a drink for this one is tougher than dragging Ron out for clothes shopping.

"Oh, wouldn't you love to know just how to please me?" she purrs and winks at him salaciously.

Dear Merlin. This isn't happening. Can he, like, fight ten mother dragons or something instead? Banish evil spirits?

Considering her age and how much she reminds him of Minerva… Harry clears his throat. He hopes he won't remember this. Why are old people even allowed to flirt with younger ones?

He should pull a Voldemort and conquer a world or two just to outlaw this.

It makes him remember those drinking nights with the Hogwarts professors, and even though he has never invited Minerva (OR Flitwick) to drink with him again after THAT time, he still can't bleach his brain. He's already been traumatised for life. He doesn't want to add any more trauma, please and thank you.

"Well, I guess I do have something else, too. How do you like your coffee? All-black, mocha, latte, frappuccino? Just tell me whatever you want, and chances are I'll make it in the back," he blurts out hastily to escape this situation. "There's a... trade secret. Um, my friend shared it with me."

"Oh? This sounds so delightfully shady. Fine. My heart craves some... strawberry latte. And a cappuccino for Tyr. To go, two sugars for each. Challenge accepted?"

Harry snorts. "Not much of a challenge, this. Wait a moment."

He goes into the kitchen, secure in the knowledge that his wards and spells would prevent any theft. He doesn't expect it, of course, but CONSTANT VIGILANCE. Even a nice lady with an overgrown emo-boy could be assassins sent for his life.

Harry hasn't missed the scars webbing across Daniela's fingers or the burns hidden by the bright flowers of her tattoo. Hasn't missed the way her eyes scrutinise his café, calculate everything. Evaluate him as a threat.

He hasn't missed the glint of metal in the sleeve of Tyr's prosthetic arm, which appeared when Harry leaned forward.

Without Daniela's approval it would have been impossible to settle in Riccardo. He appreciates that. His gratitude, however, will not blind him.

Sighing – why are people so complicated, why? – he reaches a shelf to pull down a mini trunk. It's patterned with tiny lilies and green leaves, and it's a present.

Harry's lips pull up in a smile at the thought of his friend.

Gabrielle is such a busy girl. She's working part-time in a café in one of French magical districts, and apparently vials of powder coffee are all the rage there now. Upon finding out his plans, she immediately gifted him with a very large selection. And a cute blush. It's still an inevitable part of their interactions. She also flirts with him nowadays, but this flirting he doesn't really mind.

Harry opens the small trunk, crammed to the brim with elegantly crafted vials of colourful powder, each labelled in French cursive and with a little drawing. It's a lot of work for something that will essentially be used one, two, three times and then thrown out, but in his years of freedom Harry has acquired a liking for the beautiful and the ephemeral. He should thank Aunt Petunia and his loving family for that – he would have paid less attention to nice things had he the chance to own them during most of his life.

His fingers nimbly select the right powders before he reaches into the cupboards for the cups. Thankfully, the powders don't require any water – magic is magic for a reason. He pours the contents of a vial into the cup and marvels at the slow rise of pinkish foam. He repeats the procedure, this time with the cappuccino, before making a small bone picture with the cocoa powder. He hopes Tyr appreciates it.

The principle of the whole thing is very similar to its muggle counterpart, except that the taste is somehow majestic, like fresh coffee made on the spot by the best barista in the world. The temperature is also always right for the drinker, no matter the preferences.

The coffee aroma disperses through the room. Harry closes his eyes and inhales. It almost tempts him into making some for himself but-

Harry smirks.

Tea sounds much better at this time of day.

Done, he scribbles the names of his customers in yellow on the dark blue cup, right next to the logo, hoping his scrawl is at least moderately legible, before striding back to his patiently waiting patrons. Well, at least one of them is patiently waiting.

"Here you are." He beams and passes them the cups. He's already taken care of their other orders during the conversation, so now all that's left is to sip his tea and watch Daniela's face contort.

They do say rightly that sadism is an acquired taste.

"Tea drinkers," the woman mutters into her strawberry latte. Is it a trick or does he feel oddly warm for a second? "I'm surrounded by tea drinkers."

"Actually, I'm more of an 'I'll drink whatever the heck I find around' drinker."

The café is still empty outside of Daniela and her companion, which is... Unusual. A few familiar people lurk outside, but no one dares to come in. A couple of faces peer anxiously through the window. Some of them are scared. All of them are awed.

"Well, it's been a pleasure, but the break is over." Daniela sighs, leaning into Tyr's prosthetic hand. "I looked forward to retirement, but who would have thought that I would do the same amount of work when I'm pushing hundred as I did when I was a teen?"

"If it's any consolation, all retirement ends with death. I'm pretty sure you'll rest then. Have a nice day- try not to drown in tea again!" Harry waves her off cheerfully.

Tyr helps Daniela – his boss? friend? colleague? client? – down the stairs, and it's like a switch has been turned off. Suddenly everyone crowds back into the café. They are respectful and thoughtful as always, no one grumbles impatiently or hurries him, no one says a single impolite word.

Harry is so thankful for that.

After all, his mind isn't in his work.

As soon as Daniela leaves, it smacks him right in the heart – the lack. All the time she was in the room, there was warmth. Like the crackling fire of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, something a little like home, nostalgic and beautiful. The hearth in the Burrow, when everyone is there. The air in the lab Harry shared with Andromeda and George when they lived together.

It's familiar. It reminds him of people, too. Even those of whom he doesn't have fond memories.

The warmth in Dumbledore's eyes when Harry woke up from his adventures with no injury to his name. The single second of warmth in Voldemort, the heart-stopping second when Tom Riddle looked at him before choosing hate over remorse.

It's the warmth that resides in Harry's own heart.

It's the warmth that constantly makes him yearn and ache with yearning.

It's the warmth that wants to be given, yet it doesn't tell him whom or what it seeks as a recipient nor how to soothe it, and it frustrates him, because it's a part of himself but one that feels distant and stubborn. Disconnected. Always reminding him of his fear that perhaps Voldemort's shard cost him something precious that cannot be taken back.

So, he doesn't think of the people he's serving. Barely stops himself from running out and grabbing Daniela to seek answers. His magic thrums inside him, and the restlessness that has made its home within him since Voldemort's death sharpens. The desire to reach for something is unbearable.

Suddenly, Harry realises that all this time everyone in this town has been giving off the energy that puzzles him. Dying Will Flames, they were called. It's stronger in these people than in anyone he knows… but even they leave this mysterious part of him dissatisfied. Disappointed, too, perhaps?

Was he right in coming here? Will this place really give him answers about this energy that's been driving him mad for years?

He hopes so.

Selfishly, he also hopes... that others find his own warmth just as beautiful.

Freedom is both lonely and intoxicating.

Ever since Voldemort's death Harry has sought to alleviate these bouts of loneliness and restlessness that plague his days. As of yet, he has found three ways.

Flying is the best of them.

For Harry, flight is a conversation with his body, with his self. He re-evaluates his life. His actions. Even when he thinks of nothing at all, the rush of freedom refreshes and energises him.

The town of Riccardo is situated not far from Florence, the hub of Italian magical community. One of the reasons Harry chose Italy is how much people here appreciate flying – not only Quidditch or other games, but the act itself. There are clearly marked broom paths in the air all along the best flower trails of Tuscany, pamphlets indicating the most scenic routes, and stables of magical creatures you can rent.

Right now, Harry is too unbalanced to try anything other than throw on his Invisibility Cloak and ride the wind, but next time…

Next time, he will go on an adventure.

He wishes there could be someone else to appreciate the freedom of the ride, a person he could take with him and share in the excitement…

But there will be no one.

Harry makes his peace with it, and nothing dampens his wild smile as he sketches figures in the air.

Talking about the weather is supposed to be a British thing.

Not here.

In the town of Riccardo everyone is concerned about the weather. He is always hearing about storms rampaging in another region of Italy (Harry doesn't hear anything about it on the news though), or clouds growing in number (here Harry just stops and stares at their awed faces because isn't it just what clouds do?), or someone founding a family of rains (well, it's been a while since Harry's been to muggle school, he just doesn't do natural sciences anymore)...

Half the time it isn't even accurate weather.

"Quite Sunny today, isn't it?" Daniela greets him. The throng of people, many of them dressed in canary yellow today for some reason, parts.

Harry looks past her at the sheet of rain behind the misty window.

"If you say so," he mutters dubiously and automatically packs away ten vanilla tarts. Tyr is with her today, as he's been the whole week, and he grunts a little happier every time he receives the treat.

"But you are too high-quality for all this rabble," she continues. She briskly lands into the chair Tyr pulls out for her. "You deserve someone just as… delicious." She smiles like a cat that's got her mouse. "And I know just the person. You will love him, that sadistic little troll."

"This qualifier isn't exactly endearing."

"Oh, he will charm your socks off. He is perfect at everything he does, even unmotivated. And this? A Sky? He will be very motivated." Daniela sends him a sharp grin. "He has been waiting for someone like you for a long, long time."

Her voice is very loud. It rings across the room, and something in his heart echoes, shifts, and something wants to silence her, while the rest of him sighs in pure relief, as if it is the end of a very long and lonely journey.

"I think you might be his only hope by now," the woman continues. "You might want to get ready; he won't let you go once he meets you, no chance at all."

Harry swallows.

He has already been someone's only hope, and it's a place he never wishes to return to.

"I'd thank you not to send unstable stalkers with dubious personal qualities my way," he says calmly. His hands grip the edge of the counter. "In any case, I've tried out a new recipe today. Cranberry crumble. Would you like to try it?"

The lady agrees with a bark of laughter, while Tyr is as motionless and silent as ever. Harry and Daniela exchange pleasantries, play the usual game where both would mine for information, and prod each other.

Harry enjoys this. Wouldn't mind if it becomes regular routine that stretches into years, because Daniela is dangerous but charismatic. Yes, she probes him, but it's done out of prudence rather than malicious intent. After all, he is a dark horse on her territory, in the town she cares about. He would have been insulted had she just accepted his presence here and let it go, because he has been solving mysteries since childhood and smells a secret when he there is one.

This town is a tangle of them.

This is how his first week goes.

He sells his pies, and breads, and buns at an alarming rate. (Take that, Hermione, and he hasn't even read a page out of that manual!)

He talks to those customers that don't faint, and he has found a convenient place to dump those who do. They are treated to a biscuit or a cup of tea on the house when they wake up – after which half of them promptly faints again. Harry wonders if there is something in the air.

The emptiness lurks on the outskirts of his life as it has done for the past eight years, but he staves it off by researching the heck out of those Dying Will Flames.

Someone watches him whenever he goes out, but that's not a novelty nor a problem.

He listens to the beautiful piano melodies coming from the shop next-door in the morning, goes out for a broom ride every other evening, writes letters, works on his projects, or simply plays with Hedwig while contemplating the mysteries imbuing every corner of this charming town.

It's a routine. Pretty boring and normal.

Like everything normal in his life, it dies fast.

Damn it. Of course his little saving-people thing would one day grow into a huge people-hoarding problem!

Author Notes:

- Yep, Harry, there is definitely something in the air, and it's called 'your Sky Attraction' lol.

- A Sky also feels a lack of Elements in this fic, so it's not so one-sided here. But don't worry, Elements are pining, too!

- Anyway, GUESS WHICH ARCOBALENO HAS COME TO TOWN FIRST?

- A guestion: are there any readers unfamiliar with the KHR-verse? If yes, I'll, well, try to put in a couple of extra explanations in the next chapter, because while Harry is mostly oblivious about Flames (but he DOES know some things), other characters aren't, and it's gonna show in their POV.

- Here, have a few fic recs with Harry and the Arcobaleno: 1) The All Encompassing Sky by Maintenant (fem!Harry; possible reverse harem); 2) Backslash by FlightOrFight (Animagus!Harry; dimension travel); 3) Paulo Caelo by LittleSkyCompass (MoD fem!Harry; reverse harem); 4) Hemp Flowers Meant Fate by MufuMufuSan (sick!Harry; updated recently yay!). Putting in the summaries would make this too long, but by Morgana they're all amazing!

- Since I'm not a native English speaker and can be a bit hasty when checking my own work, read at your own risk.

- Please tell me if I should continue? (but chapter 2 is done anyway)