Work Text:
Precisely 200 grams castor sugar.
200 grams butter, softened to the perfect consistency with a practiced flick of his wrist and brief incantation. Draco could have made this recipe while Confunded—and under a sleeping draught.
But though he’d beat together these same ingredients one thousand times, neither did he mind doing so another time still.
Eggs next. One, two, three from local chickens, and then four, the last from a most uncooperative Ashwinder, but then, Draco felt that hard-won eggs yielded the best results.
The yolks brightened the pale mixture to a sunny yellow.
Vanilla bean, scraped magically, and the zest from an orange.
He reached for the flour.
—xXx—
“Thank Merlin,” Parvati joked.
Harry and Ron cracked up. “Literally,” Harry added unnecessarily, as Hermione looked across the table to see what they were all laughing about. Harry shrugged at her and mouthed, “Had to be there.”
Hermione smiled back and returned to her conversation with Angelina and Lee—except she was Leslie Jordan now, and she and Angelina looked so happy together. Leslie’s eyes sparkled as Angelina gestured emphatically about the action surrounding the imminent Quidditch trade deadline.
Despite his pinched toes from his ill-fitting dress shoes, the conversation and friendly faces around him made Harry glad he’d come. Cho’s wedding to her new Muggle husband had been touching, and Harry had thus far successfully avoided both dancing and autograph requests at the reception. Unexpected fondness swelled in his chest.
The best man, a slight wizard with bushy eyebrows and bowtie, stood then to give an agonizingly awful toast about “twue wuv” to the bride and groom. Harry groaned inwardly; life was certainly pain, at least in that moment.
Thankfully, Ginny, one of Cho’s bridesmaids, took over with a toast to the magic of love, her words uncharacteristically soppy, but it seemed to please Muggle and Wizard alike. His heart twinged watching her. She looked beautiful.
He turned away and took a sip of his ice water, cool and refreshing in his throat. He’d made a mess of that, certainly. It was long ago now though, and at least she looked happy these days when he saw her from time to time.
“Trade seats?” he heard Hermione ask behind him, and Harry turned to see Neville swap amicably with her.
She turned to Harry once she’d settled in next to him. “You should use an extension charm for your shoes.”
He smiled a little. “Then I wouldn’t have an excuse not to dance.”
“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter interrupted them.
Harry turned to see a devastatingly beautiful young gentleman bearing large slices of cake. Despite the earlier free-flowing hors d'oeuvres and full dinner he’d just finished, Harry took in his dessert options with delight. He glanced around the table to see many of his friends already had slices in front of them.
“Might I offer you some dessert? Tonight, we have our chocolate hazelnut dacquoise with caramel shards or our specialty, passion cake, vanilla with passionfruit curd and a lemon glaze.”
The way the server lingered on the word passion—Harry’s ears might have pinked. He found he couldn’t look the handsome waiter in the eye, so he studied the desserts instead. They were exquisitely decorated, and the sweet scent made his mouth water.
“Sir?”
“The vanilla, please.” Harry grinned to cover his nerves, feeling mildly successful that he hadn’t stumbled in his response. Beautiful things were intimidating to him, so between the cake and the waiter, Harry felt lucky to have survived the encounter at all.
“Sir?”
Shit. He’d messed up after all. “Yes?” Harry asked.
“Your magical signature, please.”
“To get cake?” Harry was confused.
“Apologies, but protocol demands.” The waiter leaned in conspiratorially, and Harry could smell his cologne. “Lots of Aurors around.”
Harry wildly looked for Ron, who was the only Auror in the immediate vicinity, but Ron just grinned back and gave him an unsubtle thumbs up. Weren’t Aurors supposed to be helpful?
“Mr. Potter, sir? We simply need to verify you’re over eighteen.”
Harry was confused. “I’m twenty-eight. I don’t understand. Everyone knows… I don’t think I even brought my wand. Look, I’ll just have a piece of the chocolate instea—”
But Hermione artfully slid his wand into his hand. “Have the passion cake, Harry. In fact, I will too.”
Neville whistled, and Ron grinned. “Give her two slices. Big ones!”
Hermione gave them a sly grin before pulling out her own wand for the waiter. After a moment, he handed it back and placed a slice of beautiful white fluffy cake before her. Curd dribbled over the side. After standing up again, the server hesitated slightly. “Did you—”
"One piece will be plenty, I assure you,” Hermione clarified.
The server chuckled before turning back to Harry, flashing him a devastating smile. “And you, sir?”
“Er, right.” Harry presented his magical signature to the waiter before he had cause to move in and whisper in Harry’s ear again, which had sort of been wonderful and awful at the exact same time.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter.” The waiter placed the vanilla cake in front of him with no small amount of flourish before moving away to Parvati, who ordered the chocolate.
Harry regarded his cake. Sure, it was a generous slice, but he still wasn’t sure why it had warranted all the fuss. He turned to Hermione. “I didn’t know passionfruit was a controlled substance.”
“It’s the passion flower, not the passion fruit,” she said, taking a bite and licking icing from her fork.
Ron made a funny noise.
Harry glanced over as the server proceeded to Hannah, who also requested the chocolate, patting her pregnant belly as she did so.
Ron elbowed Neville. “One slice too many last year, eh?”
Harry started. “Ron,” he hissed. “She’s pregnant.”
Ron gave Harry a strange look. “Yeah, obviously. She told us last month.”
Harry looked at his cake. Maybe passion flower was known to assist with fertility? Or was that pomegranate? He turned to Hermione to ask, but Hermione was watching Angelina and Leslie feed each other bites of cake.
“That’s so hot,” Hermione murmured, pausing to sip her wine.
Harry couldn’t figure out if it was hot, inappropriate, or both, honestly. He took another bite of his cake. It was delicious—the best he’d had in ages, actually—but he didn’t know how cake could be good enough to get someone pregnant.
It was good, though, wasn’t it? He quickly devoured the rest of his cake, thinking that he should have taken Hermione’s extra slice before he’d even finished. As he put down his fork, he licked his lips and made a soft sound of contentment, utterly satisfied and stuffed to his gills.
Thinking some tea would have been welcome, he glanced around to catch the attention of a server, only to find almost everyone watching him. Including the handsome waiter. Parvati even had a fork paused halfway to her mouth.
Was there something on his face? Had his manners been that abhorrent? He checked to ensure his serviette was on his lap and not tucked into his collar, as he sometimes did when no one was watching.
He smiled nervously. Maybe he’d just eaten too fast. He licked his lips again and brushed his hand over his mouth to check for crumbs, confused. Several people were still half-watching him; he could feel their eyes. He stared down at his plate trying to ignore it, but within moments, it was whisked away by the attentive waitstaff. When he dared look up again, he found that, thankfully, most of his friends had returned to their own conversation and desserts. Suddenly feeling overly full and in need of air, he excused himself to the restroom and quickly found his way into the cool foyer of the reception hall.
He wandered over the open window and looked out, breathing deeply of the cool night air. A few lungfuls and he felt much better, so he moved on to the loo. Just before he returned to the reception room, he spotted a table with a few stacks of business cards on it. Leaning over, he took a closer look. Some were for the string quartet that had played at the wedding, others were for the reception hall, even the event planner, which apparently specialized in combined Muggle/Wizard occasions. But it was the stack of cards for the dessert caterer caught Harry’s attention.
Gâteau Passionné
Love + Flour
86 Vertic Alley, London, England
[email protected]
He pocketed one of the cards; Teddy’s birthday was coming up. Perhaps he could order a cake to make things easier for Andromeda.
As he stood once more, he felt the hairs on his neck prickle as though someone was watching him. But he looked around and found that, of the few people in the foyer, no one was paying him any attention. There was a small sound near the entry to the men’s loo, but nothing more, so Harry shrugged it off and returned to his friends.
Having been reminded of the cake, Harry was intent on asking Ron and Hermione about the fuss with the waiter but found that they, along with most of the others, had congregated off to the side of the reception hall near the band. The music had picked up, and he could spot several of them in the crowd of dancers.
He sat down next to Hannah, who had remained behind at their table.
“Join my sorry sore feet club?” she asked.
“You bet.” Harry grinned.
He watched Ron and Hermione sway together, looking at home in each other’s arms.
“Hey, where’d Neville go?” he asked, just as the music changed, and tempo picked up significantly.
She gestured toward the small stage where the band was playing the intro to “House Aflame.”
“Oh no.” Harry said, cringing as Neville stepped up to the mic, his tie gone and shirt opened to reveal a great deal of chest hair. Harry was about to ask whether Neville could even sing when Neville started and, well, Harry quickly realized he didn’t need to. Neville was… not good. Really not good.
He glanced at Hannah, wondering how Neville had convinced the band to let him join in, but Hannah was staring at the stage with hearts in her eyes, though she was clearly biting back a smile. She had to know he was awful, didn’t she? She did, he realized. And she loved it anyway. Harry turned back to the stage thoughtfully, his eyes moving over the dancing crowd.
Ron was all sweaty and pink and uncoordinated but owning it, making Hermione laugh.
Leslie and Angelina were also grinning as they danced, and if Harry wasn’t proof enough himself, Angelina’s moves confirmed that years of playing Quidditch did not equate to coordination on the dance floor.
Between Harry and the dancers, at an otherwise empty table, Padma and Malcolm Preece sat, chatting together with awkward pauses and champagne-warmed cheeks. Malcolm laughed a little too loudly at something she said, and she spilled a little wine in response, but while Harry didn’t know Malcolm well, he could tell Padma looked pleased with the interaction, despite the superficial imperfections evident even from afar.
He went back to observing the room when the handsome server from before caught his eye. He raised his eyebrow at Harry, seeking a signal to come over. Perhaps he was wanting to dance or maybe even give Harry his number, as blokes sometimes did because he was famous. Harry looked away quickly. It was easier than engaging the man in conversation, since Harry didn’t really want any of those things. He never had.
It was as though there was some game playing out all around him that Harry didn’t know how to join. He never knew how to join, and it made him deeply uncomfortable to consider doing so, even though he sometimes wanted to.
He frowned slightly, glancing at Hannah as he reached for his water glass. She caught him looking and gently leaned into him. He let her, for a moment, before smiling genuinely at her, the thought forgotten almost immediately as Neville finished his wretched performance and bowed with no small amount of flourish to the good-natured hoots and cheers that rose in response.
—xXx—
200 grams, no more, no less. Draco measured and sifted the flour with magic until it was as light as air.
Now baking soda, one teaspoon, perfectly level. He incorporated it into the flour.
Cocoa next, which he combined with the other dry ingredients after applying his favourite dampening charm to the bowl, ensuring the poof of chocolate that inevitably resulted remained where it ought to be instead of coating Draco himself.
Finally, his specialty, what set him apart and turned standard flour into Passion Flour. Typical cake into passion cake.
Love.
—xXx—
The eve of Teddy’s birthday found Harry in a bit of a jam. Not enough jam, for one thing, and far too much raw cake batter for another.
Harry peered inside the oven at the batter overflowing from the cake tins, pouring over the sides like a potions lab assignment gone very, very wrong. He wasn’t sure if he should let it keep cooking—maybe the mixture would eventually set and cook? But Grimmauld Place was rapidly filling with acrid black smoke, and Harry found that made it very hard for him to think. It got worse when Walburga started screaming from her portrait, which never failed to wake up—
Rosemary squawked as she swooped through the kitchen and skidded across the top of several cabinets before landing on a light fixture.
“Yes, thanks, Rosemary. I’ve got it.” Harry turned off the oven and opened its door, smoke filling the room completely. He spared her a glance. “You’ve lost your glasses again,” he added, his admonition half-hearted.
The smoke was apparently too much for his owl, since she gave him a baleful hoot and vacated the room, knocking into a door frame and ricocheting off it into a wall before successfully retreating to the sitting room. Harry flung out his hand to send a quick cushioning charm in her direction, just in case, before returning to the smoke billowing around him.
Walburga screeched on and his Muggle smoke detector went off only moments later, its piercing bleeps cutting right through his skull as he cast spell after spell to clean the air, pausing only to Banish the smoke detector completely. (He apologized mentally to whomever had to deal with it, wherever it was that Vanished things ended up.) Once he could breathe—and think—a little more clearly, he set about dealing with Walburga, eventually negotiating a full 24 hours of open curtain time in exchange for immediate silence on her part, before he finally returned to the kitchen to survey the damage.
The singed yet raw cake would have to be thrown out. If he ran out for more sugar and butter, he could start that over. But then there was the issue of not having enough apricot jam because Rosemary had crash landed into the last batch as it was setting. Hadn’t that been a right mess.
Harry scrubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. Shops were closing anyway.
Feeling altogether miserable, he cleaned up the kitchen then joined Rosemary in the sitting room. She snuffled quietly as she slept in her nest of shredded Quidditch mags, cotton balls, and old holey socks.
Teddy needed a birthday cake; that much was obvious. In retrospect, Harry probably shouldn’t have tried a new recipe from that popular Muggle baking show at the last minute. In his defence, he generally quite liked cooking and didn’t mind baking either. The results were generally at least edible. He pulled a face. The fancy recipe may have been a tad out of his league.
He supposed he’d have to stop at a bakery for a store-bought cake on the way to Andromeda’s. He wouldn’t have time to start again in the morning, even if he cooled the cake with magic to save time. Bugger.
When he gathered enough energy, he stood again and began to close up the house for the night. He put some food out for Rosemary, bid a scowling but still-silent Walburga good evening, set the few wards he still used as a precaution, and headed to take a bath and try to go to bed early after a disappointing evening.
He slept soundly though, besides an awkward dream about Molly Weasley fighting gnomes. Not even Rosemary knocking over the stack of books next to her cage stand managed to wake him before sunlight streamed into his windows the following morning.
—xXx—
Draco Summoned a measuring spoon. In truth, he wasn’t adding love, at least, not exactly. But it was certainly the closest he could morally approximate in baked-good form.
Just enough to last a few hours, like a few drinks but without the unpleasant hangover.
Draco reached for the little cannister of Passion Powder, noticing it was nearly gone. He’d need to make more the following week, which meant he’d need to place a fresh order for rose thorns first thing Monday morning.
He measured ¼ of a teaspoon of the shimmering red powder into the flour along with a quick dash of pearl dust—it was for a fellow Slytherin’s bachelorette party, after all—and gave it all a quick stir.
A standard beating charm meant he could make short work of adding the flour mixture to the creamed butter and sugar.
Draco examined the rich, velvety batter. He cast a leavening charm to adjust its density and a quick spell to slightly increase the susceptibility of those who would eventually consume it.
Another stir, and he was satisfied.
Perfect.
—xXx—
Sometime in the night, the answer came to Harry. Quite literally since when he woke, he found that Cho’s owl had delivered a thank you note for his wedding gift. Harry read the note and was pleased to learn Cho seemed to like his choice of blue and white hand towels, which Harry privately thought conveyed both his genuine happiness for her without being intimate enough to cause her to mistake his intent and think he still wanted to kiss her—while also not being so provocative that she might cry when opening them.
The note reminded Harry of Cho’s reception and the amazing cake she’d had catered for the event. And that, it seemed, was the answer to Harry’s latest predicament. He fished the business card from the pocket of his dress robes, deciding to pay the establishment a visit as soon as it opened for the day. Harry could pick out a cake for Teddy, have them write his name and add a few personal touches on top, and be on his way.
He fed Rosemary and used a sticking charm to help keep her glasses in place, reminded her of her important task later that day, and Apparated off to Vertic Alley to pay the bakery a visit.
In almost no time at all, he stood before the shop.
Gâteau Passionné. The sign seemed fancy with its elegant white script and adornment, perhaps overly so, for its proximity to Diagon Alley. But when he looked around, he found his reaction modified accordingly. The bakery fit in, surrounded as it was by a chic high-end shoemaker, a classy celestial magic fulfilment consultancy, and the headquarters for Tooth Fairy Industries, which sparkled in the sunlight and employed at least one Veela, if the reactions of other passers-by were any indication. It certainly was an upscale section of town.
He went inside, and a little bell jingled as he entered.
“Potter.”
Harry stopped short at the bored drawl. Why did it seem so—
He blinked. “Parkinson?” Her name came to him in a flash, a memory. He hadn’t seen her in a decade, but it was her, unmistakably. She was dressed all in black with her hair cut in a severe shape around her shoulders. Everything else in the shop was white, except for Pansy’s outfit, which was all black and shiny and fashionable in a way that he would never be. She tapped her nails against the glass in a distracting rhythm. Her nails were dark blue and chipped. “Er, Pansy. Hello.”
He tore his attention from her nails and looked around, immediately disappointed by the lack of visible cakes.
“Er,” he said again. “I need a cake. Are you all out?”
She arched an eyebrow. “No, Potter, we’re not all out.” She said it as though the question were expressly stupid before slowly blinking at him. Harry couldn’t figure out why that stood out unless she hadn’t blinked previously.
“Well, then, I need a birthday cake.”
She retrieved a quill and some parchment and seemed poised to write, so Harry ploughed forward, but only because of how desperate he was not to disappoint Teddy. “It should say ‘Happy Birthday Teddy,’ and he likes chocolate best.” Why was he so nervous?
“Our specialty is vanilla.”
“Fine,” Harry said. “Whatever you’ve got.”
“But we can make chocolate,” she continued, as though Harry hadn’t said a word.
“Really,” Harry tried again. “Whatever you have.” He could feel himself sweating.
“How many people are you feeding?”
“Er. Maybe twelve?”
Pansy pursed her lips, made red through either magic, lipstick, or both. She scribbled on her paper. “And how many of them are Weasleys?”
“Why does that—I don’t know how many will… three. Maybe four.”
“Fine. Enough cake for twenty-four.”
“I don’t think we really need—”
"I assume the way they eat hasn’t changed. You’ll want chocolate buttercream icing?”
“Yes,” Harry agreed, feeling as though he was on safer ground when it came to icing. And nothing mattered besides getting Teddy a cake, he reminded himself. “That’d be great.”
“With Passion?” she asked.
“Er, sure,” Harry said. “Sounds great.”
She gave him a slightly more approving look. “Magical signature, please.”
“For cake?”
Pansy drummed her fingers again, staring at him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d blinked. “Potter, did you not just order chocolate with Passion?”
Honestly, Harry wasn’t certain what he’d ended up ordering, but her tone seemed to indicate it was best to agree.
“Your wand?”
Harry hesitated, a move that caused further contempt to colour Pansy’s expression, but he drew out his wand and provided his signature. He was lucky he had it with him at all, given that he used wandless magic almost exclusively these days.
“Fine,” she said. “It shall cost you eighteen galleons, plus tax, and you may pick it up on Tuesday.”
“Eighteen gall—wait, did you say Tuesday?” Harry balked. “I need it today. I was hoping you had something already made…” He trailed off. “Look, I’ll… it’s for Teddy,” Harry tried. “I didn’t realize. I have to—Is there no way?”
She seemed to study him carefully. “What time.”
It took Harry a few moments to realize it was a question, but when it did, relief flooded over him. “One p.m.”
She nodded curtly. “And then we’re even.”
“Even.” Harry understood Slytherins much better now than he did the last time he’d encountered Pansy, during the war. He wouldn’t receive further apology, but neither did he particularly want one.
“That will be twenty-two galleons, and you may return at one p.m.”
“Twenty-two? Really? You know, never mind. It’s fine. That’s great.” He may have understood them better, but Slytherins were still Slytherins. No wonder the shop could afford its prime location. He turned to the door and paused. “Wait, are you the owner?” he asked Pansy.
“Would that be a problem?” she asked, her inflection as carefully non-existent as her expression had become.
“No,” Harry said. “Not. Not a problem.”
“I’m just assisting for the day. Did you need something else?”
“No.” He supposed he was dismissed, so he turned and headed out the door before she could change her mind about the cake, only halfway out, he realized he forgot something important. He stuck his head halfway back inside. “Thank you,” he said, trying to keep things friendly.
She arched her eyebrow at him.
“Right. I’ll just be…” He trailed off. The little bell jingled as the door shut behind him on its own accord.
—xXx—
“Accio cake tin.”
Draco poured the batter into the tin, using magic to capture every last drop and then level the contents to help ensure an even bake.
He glanced at the timer above the ovens.
Right, just enough time to—“Scourgify,” Draco said, before directing the various kitchen implements he’d used to return to their rightful positions in his kitchen. He cast another quick spell to tidy up the counters and himself. He turned back to his oven just as the timer went off.
“Lumos.” Draco glanced inside the oven. The fairy cakes inside had risen nicely, and the tops were tinged a beautiful golden colour.
He quickly adjusted the temperature with his wand, before opening the oven and floating the fairy cakes out, exchanging them for the newly filled cake pan that was to bake next.
The chocolate batter safely inside, Draco levitated the fairy cakes to the cooling racks, using a cooling charm to speed up the natural process.
Next, then, would be icing. He glanced at the top slip of parchment in the pile of orders, confirming his memory against the customer’s scribbled fairy cake choices. Half with raspberry icing on top and Craving Cream piped in the middles, half with simple vanilla icing and lemon curd inside…for the expectant mother, no doubt, since there was no passion powder or any other magical aphrodisiac in the lemon fairy cakes.
He baked for a lot of baby showers. Though he couldn’t prove it—or ask for that matter—Draco’s theory was that the heavily pregnant women wanted everyone around them to have babies too. Whether it was because pregnant witches simply loved babies or because misery loved company, he couldn’t be sure.
He flipped through the small stack of orders. He’d also make the glaze for the cake currently baking before starting his next order. He glanced at it. A birthday cake. Rush order… When had that come in? He couldn’t remember anything about it. He examined the order more carefully. Pickup at one p.m.
One p.m.? In three hours? Pansy must not have realized he already had all the orders he could handle that morning. Three hours. Less than, actually. Talk about last-minute. Did no one respect his craft?
Merlin’s balls.
—xXx—
It was just after one p.m. when Harry returned to Gâteau Passionné. The bell jingled as he entered, but Pansy was finishing up with another customer, a pretty, plump, pink-haired witch with striped green tights. It was only a minute or two until she left, though, a cheerful smile on her face and her arms laden with a large order of sweet-smelling fairy cakes. Harry had to admit they looked stunning.
When it was just the two of them, Pansy let him know his cake would be out momentarily. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said, deciding to wait at the front of the shop, where he could watch other witches and wizards strolling by. It was far easier than trying to figure out what to say to Pansy.
Sure enough, not thirty seconds later, Harry turned to see the double door behind the register swing open magically, and a large cake box was first to appear through them. Harry was already realizing it was a far larger cake than Andromeda would ever need when he realized it was Draco Malfoy who was carrying it. His gaze flicked wildly between Malfoy and Pansy. Son of a Centaur. He’d spotted Malfoy in passing a few times in the last decade but had always intentionally looked in the opposite direction. It was always easier not to know about Malfoy, to abruptly stifle his natural curiosity when he saw the man. Thinking about Malfoy and what had happened to him was more than Harry could deal with.
But now he was right there in front of Harry. Harry couldn’t just turn away or hide or Apparate or—
Harry swallowed. Malfoy looked…he looked…wait. Wait.
Cake? If Malfoy hadn’t been wearing an apron with the bakery logo on it, Harry wouldn’t have believed it. Malfoy made cake. Good cakes, if Cho’s wedding was anything to go by. Why was Malfoy making cakes?
He was up to something. He had to be up to something. Harry’s heart started thrumming fast in his chest, but it wasn’t due to nerves as it was with most people. Malfoy always made him so angry. And this time was no exception, even if it had been years since Harry allowed himself to even see Malfoy.
Malfoy had no right to bake perfect cakes and serve them to Harry’s unsuspecting friends and innocent Muggles.
Meanwhile, Malfoy clearly hadn’t yet seen him. “Thanks, Pans.” He handed her the box and began to untie his apron. “This is the last one for today. Thanks for covering. I’m going to go get cleaned up and be off. Andromeda’s gathering will be starting shortly.”
“Andromeda?” Harry echoed dully, his brain starting to move in fast forward.
It was almost comical, how Malfoy stopped dead before whipping his head around to look at Harry. What looked like pink frosting was smeared on his forehead.
Harry needed to sit down. Possibly he needed an actual lie down. Instead, he said, “You bake.”
Malfoy stared at him, his face inscrutable, before abruptly whirling around and heading back through the doors he’d just come from. Harry knew it meant he was up to something. Trying to get out of it, most likely. Whatever it was. Harry’d find out. He bet there was a back exit, that Malfoy was going to try to slither out—
But Malfoy returned almost as quickly, his apron absent, frosting gone from his face, and his hair neatened somehow, which was odd, because Harry hadn’t thought it un-neat before. Malfoy’s face was also different. Cool and collected. All the warm familiarity he’d directed at Pansy was boxed up along with his reaction to seeing Harry and stashed away behind those doors. Harry wished he had that trick in his own repertoire.
Malfoy’s voice was similarly without inflection when he said, “Potter.”
“You bake,” Harry said again. This time it wasn’t a question.
Malfoy looked at Pansy. “Is this his cake?” He turned back. “Potter, is this your cake?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Pansy again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Pansy shrugged and smiled a Slytherin smile, meanwhile Malfoy was looking a little green and decidedly less composed. Despite being his house colour, it was not a good look on him.
“To be fair, I didn’t exactly know you made them,” Harry pointed out, his ears heating inexplicably. He hoped his hair was covering them; he didn’t want Malfoy to think Harry was up to something when it was clearly Malfoy himself who was surely working toward some nefarious end.
Malfoy seemed to wrench himself from the Look he was giving Pansy, and Harry was certain the two of them were going to exchange words later. He felt Malfoy’s eyes on him as he stepped up to the counter and pulled out his coin purse. After awkwardly fishing through its mess of contents, he placed twenty-two galleons on the counter, dropping some Muggle coins, an old squished green jelly bean, and a paper clip on the creaky wooden floor in the process. He scooped them up as gracefully as he could and shoved everything else back in his pocket.
Malfoy was staring at the pile of coins.
“You’re welcome,” Pansy told Malfoy with a sly smile.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He reached for the cake box to look inside. Harry didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed at how amazing it looked. And huge. The lettering on top was in green, but Harry hadn’t specified a colour and could easily change it to yellow with a simple spell. He supposed he should have also specified it was Teddy’s eleventh birthday, but the cake looked amazing with little whorls and magical sparkles, and it smelled even better, so Harry wasn’t going to utter a word.
“Potter.” Malfoy paused, and Harry looked up. “You really didn’t know this was my bakery?”
“No. I had piece of cake from here at a wedding a few weeks back, and honestly, it was, you know, pretty good. So I just thought of it when I needed a cake for—” It was then that Harry remembered. “Wait. Did you say Andromeda before? You are going to Andromeda’s this afternoon? Andromeda Tonks?”
Malfoy suddenly looked tired. “She’s my aunt. I’m allowed to see her. She’s having a gathering this afternoon, and I agreed to attend, yes.”
“Does that gathering happen to be a birthday party?” Harry didn’t know when Andromeda and Malfoy had made amends, but apparently, they had.
Malfoy gave him a funny look. “Yes, but I don’t see why that should—”
“For Teddy?”
Malfoy stopped cold. “This cake is for little Edward—”
“Teddy, yes.”
“He just turned eleven.” Malfoy grew exceedingly pale.
“Yes,” Harry said.
He ignored Pansy’s snort because Malfoy had a look of complete horror on his face. “Bloody hell, Potter! You can’t give this cake to Teddy! My god, you are a complete and utter imbecile. Are you trying to land me in Azkaban? Changed your mind since the trials?” He punctuated his words by yanking the box back from Harry.
“What? I just paid for it!” Harry squawked. He didn’t let go of the cake, tugging back as much as he dared without damaging it. A thought occurred to Harry, and it was out of his mouth before he could pull it back. “Or is a pure-blood cake too good for him?”
Malfoy’s eyes turned ice cold, and Harry attempted to backtrack. “Look, I just—”
“There is Passion Flour in this cake.” Malfoy said, flatly, trying again to wrest the box from Harry entirely. “You ordered—Merlin’s balls, Potter, what were you thinking?”
“I’m sure he’ll love it. Now give it here; I need to go.”
Malfoy let go of the cake but quickly brandished his wand and cast a spell, Vanishing it before Harry could be pleased with his victory. “Absolutely not.”
“Bloody hell, Malfoy! I promised Andromeda! Now Teddy doesn’t have a cake!”
“Why the hell would you order a passion cake for a child?” Malfoy stopped and turned to Pansy, who stood watching with her eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Pansy looked affronted. “I didn’t know who Teddy was! How was I to know Potter was still such an idiot?”
Malfoy threw her a look.
“Fair point,” she said.
Harry stopped listening to them as he processed the fact that he was going to let down Teddy. On his eleventh birthday. Because of Draco Malfoy. Even Harry’d had a cake on his eleventh birthday.
“Fuck. Just…fuck you, Malfoy,” Harry spit. He started to storm out. He had no cake for his godson, and he was going to let down Teddy, and Andromeda, and every other witch and wizard who had every right to expect cake at a birthday par—
The door wouldn’t open. He yanked on it again, but it didn’t move. He couldn’t leave. He was trapped inside the damn bakery. He scowled and turned back in time to see Pansy putting her wand away.
“Draco has just agreed to bake Teddy a new cake. One he can consume legally. Isn’t that right, Draco?
Malfoy glowered at the floor.
“And now I’m going to release the door, so Potter can run along and let Draco’s aunt know he’ll be arriving with it shortly.”
Harry snorted. He had no intention of letting Malfoy save the day. Plus, Malfoy would probably just try to poison everyone. “No way am I letting him—”
Malfoy’s head jerked up. “And why not, Potter? Think I’ll put poison in it?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry said, hating Malfoy furiously.
Malfoy stared at him. “No, you’re right actually. I wouldn’t. For Salazar’s sake, Potter, that’s my cousin.”
“Fine,” Harry ground out. “But I’m staying to make sure.” Malfoys probably wouldn’t poison their own. Probably. But there were Weasleys who would be in attendance, and Harry was less certain about their fate.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened almost enough to disappear completely. “You’re not watching me bake. I’m not some house-elf.”
“I’m staying.”
“No, you’re not. And every minute you stand there insisting that because of that stupid scar, you have a right to everything your little heart desires, may I remind you that you’re wasting precious time? Or did you want to make little Edward Remus cry?”
“Teddy.” Harry’s teeth ground together. “And you’re the one who Vanished the cake, not me.”
“For the last time, it had Passion Flour in it!”
Harry threw up his hands, barely noticing when the light flickered in response. “For the love of Merlin, will someone please tell me what that immmmphhhhh ngggmmffss.” He stopped shouting as his words turned to nonsense as his lips stuck together.
“What the fuck?” Harry swore, but it too got caught in his mouth. Nngrfffrt.
Fuck. Pansy had her wand out again.
“Draco, why don’t you get started before he attacks us both. I’ll deal with Potter.” Her lips twisted into a half smile as Harry continued to struggle to communicate his displeasure without resorting to the violence they expected from him and that he knew wasn’t right, even if he wanted very much to hex both of their horrible beautiful faces. Hard.
Malfoy must have seen his expression because smirked. “Fine,” he agreed.
“Nffdsssm ghhdss nfrrrrgst!” Harry retorted, as Malfoy retreated through the door.
“All right, Potter. First, you’re a complete wanker, but Draco’s aunt is important to him, so I’m going to help you out for his sake. Sit.” A stool from behind the counter was levitated in his direction.
He didn’t sit.
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Sit and I’ll let you talk,” she amended.
Harry sat, and Pansy, to her credit, freed his lips without delay. He rubbed his jaw.
She sighed. “Passion Flour is a special flour Draco developed that uses magical ingredients and spells to create baked goods enhanced with aphrodisiacs and love potions.”
“That’s illegal,” Harry shot out.
“It’s highly regulated, but it’s not illegal. It was a nightmare, of course, but Draco eventually found ways that the Ministry had to agree to let him run his business.”
“But that’s—”
“For Salazar’s sake, the stuff is no more intoxicating than wine and even less so than straight-up love potions. The Ministry makes him go through annual testing to ensure servings fall within the legal limit, so he can keep his permits.”
Harry blinked. “So the magical signature—”
“To verify age and consent.”
Harry slumped over. “Which is why—”
“You’ll forgive Draco for not wanting to end up under arrest for serving passion cake to the Chosen Godson.”
Harry was scrubbing his face with his hand, when a thought occurred to him. “Wait,” he said. “I had cake at Cho’s wedding, but I didn’t feel anything.” He hadn’t felt any lust or desire or anything, which was too bad, really, since Harry had always wanted to know what those things felt like. But it hadn’t worked, so that meant Malfoy was up to something after all.
Pansy just shrugged. “Take it up with the baker.”
Harry thought about it, and the fire quickly reignited in his belly. Harry stood, prepared to head right back through the swinging door into the bakery to find Malfoy and…well, he wasn’t sure just what. Maybe arrest Malfoy for ripping off customers, charging them for a product that didn’t work at all maybe. That had to be illegal, right? Of course, he wasn’t an Auror anymore, so he couldn’t exactly arrest him, but Ron could. He’d just owl Ron and—
Pansy blocked him. “You’re not going back there.”
Harry moved to walk past her, but she pulled out her wand. It made him wonder if he should start carrying his wand around again just to be able to pull his out in a similarly dramatic fashion. There was a certain pleasing effect to the action. Nonetheless…
He flicked his wrist and cast a quick Expelliarmus, snagging Pansy’s wand out of the air as it flew toward him. Stepping around her as she yelped, he marched through the door with Pansy on his heels.
He stopped dead when he entered, shocked at the huge glossy kitchen, metallic and gorgeous. It was brilliant, with sharp appliances and gleaming cauldrons and displays holding beautiful baked goods and treats and cabinets with intriguing potions and powders and ingredients of all colours and textures. ‘Lust Liquid,’ read one label. ‘Amour d’alligator’ was next to it, and Harry blanched at the viscous milky substance.
Powdered Moonstone. Emulsion of centaur boogies. Peppermint root. Tears from a rejected omega mountain troll in heat? Was it weird that it smelled so good in the kitchen, like heavenly chocolate, when there seemed to be such an excessive number of jars of lumberjack foot sweat laying around?
“What is he doing back here?” Malfoy growled, though he didn’t stop chopping the dark chocolate in front of him.
Pansy shrugged. “He was determined. And frankly, as entertaining as this reunion has been, this is all far above my pay grade. He’s yours to deal with now.”
Malfoy looked up. “I didn’t realize I was paying you at all.”
“That was before.”
“Before?” Malfoy asked.
“Before I was forced to explain your business to Potter here, which brought back the invigorating memory of how those Valentine’s Day trifles you made resulted in yet another Weasley. Rose, I believe?”
“What?” Harry yelped. His ears were ringing. Firecrackers were exploding in his brain.
“Eurghhh,” said Malfoy. “Thanks for that. That’s one thank-you note I wish I’d never received.” He looked at Harry. “Fine,” he said, gesturing with his elbow toward a long wooden bench along the wall. Aprons were hung up behind it. “Sit there if you must. Don’t move. And keep your mouth shut. Distract me and we’ll be even later to Andromeda’s.”
“I’ll be out front,” Pansy said as she headed back out of the kitchen. “Try not to hex each other without me.”
Harry took a seat and peered around the kitchen. “Did you preheat the ovens?” he asked absently.
Malfoy sighed heavily and, Harry thought, mostly for show. “They’re magic.”
Harry nodded and went back to looking around. Eventually, his eyes rested back on Malfoy, who was cracking a seemingly endless stack of eggs into a large bowl. At least two dozen, maybe more.
“You know, I could help,” he said eventually.
Malfoy snorted and kept cracking.
“It’d be faster,” Harry added, because watching was boring, and he wasn’t bad at baking. Except the time he accidentally used cumin instead of cinnamon. Or the time when he accidentally swapped bicarb for baking powder. And then there was the previous night’s adventures… But Malfoy didn’t know about those times.
Harry watched longer, but Malfoy didn’t seem to be up to much besides measuring 240 grams of butter. But then he melted it with his wand, and that looked even more interesting than egg-cracking. So Harry volunteered again.
"I could—”
“No, Potter.”
“But—”
“No.”
Harry huffed and sat on his hands, which itched to participate. He started to look around for potential poison, but then he spotted the large jar of castor sugar, and surely Malfoy would trust him to—
“No, Potter. Stop distracting—dammit.” A giant poof of flour escaped the mixing bowl at that moment, coating Malfoy with a thin layer of white powder.
“You know there’s a spell for that,” Harry pointed out.
Malfoy just ignored him in favour of locating a flannel to clean off his face and arms. Harry was going to point out he’d missed some, a bit in his hair and a large smudge on his left cheek, but Malfoy had said he didn’t want help after all. He found his mood lightened considerably by the smudge, which seemed to grow in prominence every time he looked at it, right there on Malfoy’s stupid super serious cake-baking hoity-toity chef face. He bit his lip and tried to stifle his reaction when Malfoy cast a spell to beat the eggs, and the movement caused residual flour to fall from his hair onto his nose.
“Oh my god, Potter. Are you twelve? Fine. Here. Help.” Malfoy Summoned a bin of pistachios over from one of the cabinets and put it on a countertop along with a knife, mortar and pestle, and a cutting board. “Shell and grind them. Finely. 240 grams.”
Harry gleefully joined Malfoy and set to work while Malfoy scraped the middle from some vanilla beans; Harry was determined to make sure Teddy’s cake had the most perfectly ground pistachios in the history of birthday cakes.
Except…grinding pistachios wasn’t actually terribly interesting either. He had shelled the whole pile with a magical stripping charm, so then it was just the grinding, which turned out to be dead boring. Maybe Harry could be used to do more interesting things, like melt chocolate or stir things together.
He looked over at Malfoy to say something, but Malfoy was delicately combining the wet ingredients, the flour still smudged on his cheek, and something about the scene gave Harry pause.
Harry went back to his pistachios and tried to focus. He tried imagining he was smashing Malfoy’s stupid face, which helped entertain him for a while, but even that wasn’t as satisfying as Harry would have expected.
“Pistachios.” Malfoy gestured for the nuts.
“I’m not done yet,” Harry replied, looking over.
Malfoy hummed and pulled out his wand. “Reducto!” he cast, and the remaining pistachios were smashed into millions of tiny bits. “There,” he said, tucking away his wand. “Done.”
Harry’s mouth hung open as Malfoy summoned the ground pistachios and added them to the cake batter. “You just. You wanker. You were trying to keep me busy!”
“Mmm,” Malfoy said again, stirring the batter, and Harry found that the urge to hex Malfoy returned in full force.
As Malfoy put the cake into the ovens, Harry started to clean up all the shells. Harry had just decided to throw pistachio shells at Malfoy’s head, one by one, when Malfoy spoke up.
“Potter.”
“What?” he asked testily.
“Would you like to melt the rest of the chocolate for the top?”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, but the look on Malfoy’s face was. Well, he didn’t recognize it as antagonistic, for perhaps the first time ever. “You’re not going to just use a spell after?” he snapped.
“I find that a gentle warming spell with a wand yields the best results. Chocolate molecules are quite delicate.”
“I don’t usually use a wand anymore,” Harry said. “Will that be a problem?”
Malfoy studied him.
“I don’t really need it,” Harry tried to clarify.
“Well you’re not using mine,” Malfoy said.
“I didn’t ask to,” Harry huffed.
“Fine.” Malfoy slid the large bowl of dark chocolate over to him. “Very slowly and very carefully.” He cast a quick spell that would alert them when the chocolate reached 31°C.
Harry looked down at the bowl. Seemed easy enough. He raised his hand. “Focillo.”
Malfoy sucked in air, wincing. “Gentler. Salazar, you’re not making tea.”
Harry scrunched up his nose, dialling back the strength of the charm.
“Now just…” Malfoy motioned to show Harry that he should change the angle of his wrist slightly and hold his hand a little farther from the bowl.
Harry did, and the chocolate began to melt.
Malfoy cast a gentle stirring spell on the wooden spoon he’d Levitated into the bowl, and Harry watched as the chunks gave way to the thick, but glossy and smooth, liquid chocolate. Over the chocolate, he could still smell the vanilla on Malfoy’s hands.
“Enough, Potter,” Malfoy said when a soft chime sounded, and Harry reluctantly pulled his hand away, handing the bowl back to Malfoy.
He watched silently as Malfoy stirred and the remaining solid chunks melted away. Finally, he added double cream and set it aside to cool.
“How long does the cake have left to bake?” Harry asked, as Malfoy began to clean up.
“Eight minutes.” Malfoy said, Scourgifying spatulas and bowls and Vanishing Harry’s pistachio shells before Harry’d got a chance to throw them at his head. In fact, Harry had forgot all about punching Malfoy or having Ron arrest him or figuring out what Malfoy was up to.
The lengths he’d go to for his godson, Harry thought. Still, he used the extra minutes to examine Malfoy’s potion stores. Just in case.
When the cake came out of the oven, Malfoy cast a quick Freezing spell at it, though he told Harry it wouldn’t be quite as good as a cake allowed to cool naturally. But Harry had to agree that time was of the essence, so they quickly cooled it, so they could ice and begin to decorate it. Harry agreed that Teddy would love a Quidditch cake, so Malfoy found some milk chocolate and gold leaf and made a magical snitch to fly around an inch or two over the top of the cake, in and around the goalpost birthday candles.
While Malfoy was busy with that part, Harry wrote a large messy “Happy Birthday Teddy!” on top in yellow icing, and while Malfoy clearly hated it, Harry’s contribution stayed, though Malfoy added a comma to the message, which Harry found to be extremely pretentious for an eleven-year-old.
Malfoy grumbled about it incessantly, but left to his own devices, Malfoy probably would have made the cake out to Edward Remus, and that would have been far worse.
“Done,” Malfoy announced as he completed the final spell that would cause the tiny confetti Quidditch fans in the bleachers to cheer riotously when a goal was scored.
Harry couldn’t help but smile at the cake. It was perfect. And they were…Shit, almost an hour late. And a mess. They hurried to clean up and box up the cake. Harry applied a Stasis spell for good measure.
“Pansy will close up?” Harry asked, and Malfoy nodded in confirmation. “She steps in occasionally when my assistant is out. Trisha Buttermere. She had a family wedding to attend this weekend in Cornwall.”
“Wasn’t she a Hufflepuff?”
“I never said they didn’t have their uses,” he said dryly, but Harry couldn’t quite tell if he was serious.
When they were ready to go, Harry went to pick up the box, so they could Apparate, but when he glanced at Malfoy, he set the cake back down. He casually flicked a wordless cleaning spell in Malfoy’s direction, but Malfoy’s eyes went wide, and he ducked away, dropping the mixing bowl he’d been about to put away. It shattered at his feet.
“What the fuck?” Malfoy hissed.
“You had flour on your face and in your hair,” Harry explained. He cast a quick Reparo at Malfoy’s feet, and the bowl fused itself neatly back together.
“What did I just—You can’t just cast spells at people without telling them!” Malfoy’s voice was high and tight.
“Malfoy, those spells are from First Year.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Malfoy said, swallowing. “Don’t. Ever.”
Harry thought he knew why Malfoy had reacted as he had, but Harry tried never to think of those things. Anyway, Harry had only been trying to help, and it had only been little charms. Malfoy was really over-reacting and shouldn’t go about yelling at people who tried to help him. He was such a prick. Even if he made good cakes and had nice hair and good posture.
Malfoy picked up the repaired bowl and set it aside, taking off his apron next and casting a more complete Scouring charm on himself. He then straightened his clothes and hair and reached for the cake box, but that was not on, so Harry reached for it too, trying to beat Malfoy to it. He was too late, though, so instead he just grabbed hold of the other side of the cake and Apparated them both right onto Andromeda’s front lawn.
“I could have been Splinched!” Malfoy shouted as they landed roughly but on their feet. He shoved Harry backwards and grabbed the cake away, marching inside, leaving Harry sprawled on the ground. Harry gathered himself up, ready to go in after him. Harry was not going to go in there empty-handed, looking like he’d forgot Teddy’s birthday, while Malfoy waltzed in with an absolute beautiful creation that looked like he’d spent hours on it…except that Ron and Hermione walked up the sidewalk just then.
“Oi! Harry!” Ron called, and Harry had to stop and turn around and greet them like a normal person, because that’s what they deserved, even if it meant Malfoy got to take in the cake.
“Hello!” Hermione called brightly, Rose in tow. “We’re late too. Rose had trouble going down for her nap today.”
“Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry, Uncle Harry!” Rose let go of Hermione and raced toward Harry. He scooped her up. “Guess what Uncle Harry brought to the party?” he asked her.
“A blue bug!”
“Er, no?”
“We saw one on the way over,” Hermione explained.
“Ahh,” Harry said to her. “Even better than that. Uncle Harry brought cake!”
He turned to Ron and Hermione. “She can have cake, right?”
“Sure,” Hermione said. “A little.”
Harry grinned. “Good. C’mon, Rose, let’s go inside. We have to find Teddy. And Malfoy,” he stage-whispered. “He’s probably up to something.”
“Bug cake!”
“Hey, did you say Malfoy?” Ron asked.
“Oh, Harry, no,” said Hermione.
“Don’t listen to your mum,” he told Rose. “He took our cake!”
“Malfoy baked? Oh, man, his cakes are the best.” Ron grinned.
“I helped,” Harry insisted.
Ron’s face fell a little, though he caught Harry looking and tried to smile just as broadly as before.
“You let him measure the salt, right?” Hermione asked, as she took Rose back, refusing to meet Harry’s eye.
“That was one time,” Harry reminded her.
Hermione smiled. “All right; let’s go in and see what Malfoy is up to then. I bet it’s delicious.”
“Caaaaaake!” Ron yelled, running inside with his arms over his head.
When they got inside, Andromeda gave them all giant hugs.
“Sorry we’re late,” Harry said.
“No problem. Draco mentioned that you were working on the cake with him. No wonder it took you so long. It’s amazing. Teddy can’t stop looking at it.”
“I. Er. Right,” Harry said.
“You let him crack the eggs, right?”
“Yeah, why?” Harry asked, still distracted by the fact that Malfoy had not, in fact, tried to take all the credit.
“Oh, no reason.” Andromeda waved him away. “Why don’t you go say hi to Teddy. I know he’s been waiting for you.”
“Great. And Rosemary should be here shortly,” Harry added after making sure no one else was listening.
Andromeda nodded. “Perfect.”
He went off to find Teddy, trying to ignore Malfoy, who was just outside in the gardens chatting with Luna.
“Did you know Luna would be here?” Harry asked Ron later, after he’d wrapped his arms around Teddy from behind and told him how proud he was for reaching the ripe old age of eleven.
“Nope,” Ron said, scarfing down a handful of crisps from one of the bowls Andromeda had put out for everyone. “Doubt she knew she’d be here either. Probably was just out taking a walk.” Several crumbs escaped onto Ron’s shirt.
“She’s seeing one of Andromeda’s friends, I believe. Elphias,” Hermione said while showing Rose how to stir a toy cauldron.
“Doge?” Harry blinked.
“Yes,” Hermione said. “Apparently they do a lot of traveling together.”
Ron pulled a face and pretended to get sick in the cauldron.
Harry decided to go out and say hello to Bill and Fleur next, who also just happened to be in the gardens. It wasn’t long after that he heard a soft hoot from high up in the neighbour’s oak.
Making sure he was hidden from the house, Harry called to Rosemary. “Good work, girl,” he said as she executed a fairly messy landing atop the next-door neighbour’s fence. “Come here.” She hopped over, and he gave her a treat before making certain she still had the correct letter. Perfect. “Okay, now you remember what to do?”
She made a soft sound, so Harry pet her head and straightened her glasses. “Excellent. Off you go then.”
She took off, narrowly missing Andromeda’s hedge, and swooped around the top of the house, several times, hooting loudly. It soon caught the attention of the others outside.
“Teddy! You’d better come out here!” Ron called.
“Get Andromeda too!” Hermione added.
Teddy came barrelling out of the house with several friends right behind him, Andromeda biting back a smile but trailing not far behind.
Rosemary swooped and circled and executed some impressive figures in the air while everyone gathered, taking her time before eventually deeming it time to deliver her item to Teddy. With a spectacular crash, she met the ground several feet in front him, noisily rolling head over talons the rest of the way before popping back up to her feet right before him. A feather floated lazily to the ground beside her when she finally came to a stop.
“For me?” Teddy asked, looking at between Harry and his owl. Harry nodded.
“Can I?” He looked at Andromeda for confirmation.
“You’d better,” said Andromeda. “She probably has your first bill. They start coming in when you turn eleven. That ekeltricity you use is expensive.”
Teddy blinked at her for just a second before bursting into a grin. “Very funny,” he said as his friends laughed.
Rosemary hooted and held out her parcel.
“I was starting to think it was never going to come,” he said with a smile, reaching for the letter. As soon as he looked at it, his hair changed to brilliant shades of yellow, red, green, and blue.
Looking at it for a moment, he began reading aloud. “Mr Edward R. Lupin. The Second Bedroom on the Left.” He tore it open, read the first bit, then stopped and held it up in the air. “It’s from Hogwarts!” he exclaimed, and cheers went up all around him.
Harry felt like he couldn’t stop grinning as he looked around at everyone. Nudging him to get his attention, Hermione smiled with him, sharing the simple, happy moment. Not even Malfoy’s crinkled grey eyes and wand fireworks could ruin the moment.
Eventually, Harry rescued Rosemary from the commotion and gave her another treat. “Well done, you,” he told her. “Ten out of ten on the landing. But let’s renew that cushioning spell, shall we?”
Rosemary hooted, and Harry coated her with extra layers of spells before sending her off toward home.
“All right, everyone. Who wants cake?” Andromeda called.
Ron poked Harry. “Were we not supposed to have any earlier?”
Harry closed his eyes and tried not to laugh. When Malfoy spotted the missing piece, he was going to be even madder than he was about Harry’s handwriting. Harry couldn’t wait.
After the rest of the guests helped themselves to the birthday cake and Ron had consumed a second slice, and after Malfoy preened and preened as compliments rained down on him and his baking, the party began to quiet down. The kids were inside, exhausted and collapsed on various pieces of furniture after the sugar rush had run its course. They were watching a Muggle movie on the telly last Harry had seen, with Arthur keeping half an eye on them.
Harry found himself outside seated around a table with Andromeda and some of others as the long early summer evening began to give way to night. She’d brought out a fat yellow candle earlier, and more than one bottle of wine, and the combination had lit the faces and cheeks of those seated around him. The candlelight flickered and danced in the night.
It was Malfoy who first spoke after everyone had lapsed into a comfortable silence, enjoying the company and the evening.
“I brought a little something,” he said, smoothly pulling out a little box from his robes. He handed it to Andromeda. “Thank you for having me.”
Harry didn’t pretend to disguise his interest. The others at the table oohed and aahed when Andromeda opened it to reveal a set of extraordinary little bonbons.
“They’re beautiful, Draco. Thank you,” she said lifting them up for a closer look. She inhaled deeply. “Oh, wow, they smell of—”
“Careful,” Malfoy interrupted, his eyes sparkling. “The filling has Amortentia in it.”
Ron let out a low whistle, and Andromeda laughed good naturedly.
“You didn’t tell me you were bringing those,” Harry said before he could stop his mouth.
Everyone looked at him.
Andromeda jumped in after only a brief pause. “Well, when you’re my age, you have little to be embarrassed by. But that does explain why I smell bubble-gum, spring rain, and earl grey.” She paused right before she popped it into her mouth. “Is it enough to cause---”
“No.” Malfoy gave a little smile. “It’s just an extract of the Amortentia for the scent-revealing purposes. You’ll remain true to your tea and rain.”
She grinned and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, that’s good. You made the coconut cream, I gather?”
Malfoy gave a little nod and shifted in his seat. “Glad you like it.”
She patted Malfoy’s knee, and Harry noticed he turned a little pink in the candlelight.
Meanwhile, Andromeda had passed the box to her right. “There’s plenty to share, and this is a party, after all. Your turn, Hermione.”
Selecting a white chocolate piece, she took a breath. “The same as always.” She popped it into her mouth and passed the box to Ron.
“One of these days she’s going to smell me twice instead of grass,” he joked. “I don’t think you even like grass all that much…” he trailed off, as Hermione whispered something in his ear. Even in the darkness, Harry could tell Ron blushed furiously. “Er, so, we’ll keep the grass then, shall we?” He quickly took a chocolate and handed the box to Luna, popping it into his mouth without smelling it first.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Harry piped up. “You gotta smell it.”
Ron shrugged. “My mum’s around here somewhere. Some things just aren’t on. But well done, mate.” Ron gestured at Malfoy. “I think mine had raspberry inside.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes, but any further reaction was quashed when Luna, who had already chosen her chocolate from the little box, took a deep dramatic breath. She smiled delightedly. “Freshly printed newspaper. And Snorkack!”
“What’s your third one?” Hermione asked.
“Oh!” Luna said. “Whipped cream, of course.”
Harry blinked. Why did that seem…
“Sounds like Elphias is a lucky man,” Hermione said encouragingly.
Luna laughed, handing Harry the box. “Oh, it’s not for him. But sometimes when we visit the Giant Squid—”
“Pass!” Harry said, shoving the box at Fleur next to him without taking one. “Pass. Pass-Pass-Pass-Pass-Pass.”
Everyone laughed and egged him on, and Luna put her hand on his shoulder encouragingly. “It’s fun!”
Harry groaned, to everyone’s amusement, but eventually they convinced him to play along.
“All right, all right,” Harry agreed at last, and took one from the proffered box. There were only a few remaining, but he picked a little round one with a drizzle pattern on top. He took a deep breath, prepared to smell—
Huh.
Where was the treacle tart and broomstick wood that he’d expected to smell? It had been years since he’d smelled Amortentia, but at least those two shouldn’t have changed. He took another breath. He looked up, puzzled.
“Whatcha smell, mate?” Ron’s easy-going smile was no help though.
“I don’t smell anything.” He tried again, his nose searching for something, anything. But it just smelled like chocolate.
“That’s odd,” Hermione said. “You’ve smelled it in the past.”
“I know,” said Harry. “Now I don’t, though. All I smell is chocolate and vanilla and…almond paste, I think.”
He felt his eyes go to Malfoy, but Malfoy refused to look back. “I dunno. Maybe there wasn’t any in this one.” Harry tried to shrug it off and steer the conversation away from him and over to Fleur. Thankfully, as a part-Veela, she was naturally captivating to the rest of the group anyway. As everyone’s attention turned to her, he popped the chocolate in his mouth. It had a sweet gooey caramel centre. He had to admit it was good, but the whole incident left a strange feeling in his belly. He looked up and found Malfoy studying him this time.
Then, as though he’d never noticed Harry at all, Malfoy turned gracefully to smile at Fleur and didn’t look back, so Harry found himself looking Malfoy’s profile, softened by the candlelight, until he caught himself, and returned his gaze to Fleur where it belonged.
Harry might have excused himself altogether, except Bill was next, and then Malfoy, and Harry decided to stick around for that. It might be information he’d need one day. But when Bill took the box, Bill noticed there was only one left. He tried to pass it to Malfoy, but Draco demurred with such grace that Bill kept the final chocolate without it becoming much of a discussion at all.
Of course Malfoy wouldn’t have one. He was tricky like that, escaping the Amortentia while making it seem like he was doing everyone a favour. Harry missed what scents Bill’s chocolate had revealed just thinking about it.
Afterward, as everyone began to stand, saying it was probably time to go, Harry felt…off. On edge. He didn’t like it.
“Hey, that was great, Malfoy. Good fun,” Ron said as he waited for Hermione who had gone to retrieve their daughter, so they could head home, ideally without her waking her up.
Malfoy nodded and graciously accepted compliments from Bill and Fleur and Luna.
Harry met Ron’s eyes and tried to return his congenial smile before heading inside to wish Teddy a happy birthday a final time. When he came back out to say goodbye to Andromeda, Malfoy was already gone.
Ignoring the knot in his stomach, he waved goodbye to Ron, Hermione, and Rose, and Apparated home to Grimmauld Place.
—xXx—
One part moonstone to two parts walnut shell.
The dust from one cupboard, aged forty days.
Three beetle legs, minced and toasted.
Shavings from the underside of a pearl.
Two tablespoons minced rose thorns.
Combine over low heat, stirring in figure eights, at least twice per minute, until the colour develops into a uniform shade of red.
Draco set aside his newest batch of scarlet passion powder, which he’d need for his cake orders later that week. It would need to cool for a few hours before he could bottle it and apply a stasis charm to increase its shelf life.
Should he have sniffed it, he would have taken in the divine scent of sweet almond, though he didn’t dare, as the nearest animate object was his singing fig tree, and that was a miscalculation he’d only make once. Instead, all he smelled was the persistent scent of chocolate that always seemed present in his kitchen.
Being Sunday, the bakery was closed, but Draco found himself in its kitchen regardless. His goal for the afternoon was to re-evaluate his French pastry crust recipe. While he found the Lusty Loins potion he added to the last batch destabilized it slightly, the flavour was unquestionably preferable to the version before it, in which he’d used the more stable but unfortunately named Pelvis Pleasure Juice.
He sought to adjust the Lusty Loins formula, perhaps by whisking the Ashwinder egg before adding the salt and ground pomegranate seeds. He expected this alteration would make all the difference, and, if so, it would allow him to debut his newest line of Passion Pastry by midsummer, in time for customers to take beautiful fruit pies and tarts on picnics and holidays.
He’d begun drying pomegranate seeds in the weeks prior for this very purpose, so he Summoned the requisite tools for grinding them and gathered the seeds themselves from his pantry beyond the walk-in cooler.
Setting to work, he began to grind them by hand; it really was preferable to a Smashing spell when time permitted; only doing so reminded him of Potter and the pistachios, and, as with most thoughts of Harry Potter, this set Draco’s teeth on edge. Potter had undeniable magical strength and a naturally muscular stature that, had it been anyone else, would have made Draco want to do appalling things to him. And yet he clearly still had the mental acuity of a troll and a personality to match. How unattractive, Draco thought. He’d shown very poor judgement indeed with his choice of a crush back at Hogwarts. In truth, he’d made a lot of unfortunate choices back at Hogwarts; his infatuation with Potter was only one among many. He would not let Potter get under his skin again.
It would not be easy; he knew that already. Draco couldn’t quite figure Potter out and hated that he still desperately wanted to. Except Draco was meant to be figuring out his pie crust, not Harry Potter, and if he wasn’t careful...
Draco looked down to find he had ground the pomegranate seeds he’d been working on to a fine powder, much finer than his recipe called for and now impossible to use. Reprimanding himself for the wasted ingredient, he Vanished the ruined seeds, and started again.
—xXx—
Harry woke earlier than usual on Sunday, driven out of bed by an inexplicable itch. It was as though something was under his skin, crawling about, on his arms, his back, up his neck, and around his shoulders.
He took a cool shower, then dressed and had tea, and he felt better, but still found his knee bounced and back prickled. It made him quite unable to sit still. Feeling restless, he went to find Rosemary.
She made a startled little sound when he gently pet her, but her eyes remained closed, and he supposed it was only kind to let her sleep.
Puttering around the house instead, he tidied a few things while messing up just as many others in the process. Still, he felt decidedly uncomfortable. Perhaps he could go to Ron’s, or head out for a fly, or maybe Neville was free. He briefly considered Bill, but then Fleur would be there, and she made him more than the average amount of nervous, probably because he’d seen her in her bathing suit once when they were at Hogwarts. He supposed he could go for a run—did people really do that? Or maybe see a movie, except he didn’t think he had any Muggle money around, and the banks were closed on Sundays. The last time he’d tried to use an ATM, it kept beeping loudly at him and wouldn’t give him his money and the person behind him got mad.
Instead, he found himself back in his kitchen. He decided to make a good, healthy breakfast, with lots of protein, because that was always a good decision according to Molly. And besides, though he’d been up for hours, it was still only half nine.
Except twenty minutes later he’d eaten and cleaned up and had a cup of coffee, and he was still as agitated as ever. He had a knot in his stomach, too, and a bit of a headache. Maybe he was sick, or worse—poisoned. Actually…now that he thought about it, that seemed unlikely, because he’d come straight home from Andromeda’s and had eaten lunch at home before that. And it couldn’t have been the cake, because even if Malfoy helped Harry make it, Harry had watched him the whole time, so Malfoy couldn’t have done anything untoward.
Still. It was probably best to double check. He decided to Firecall Ron to make sure he and Hermione were feeling okay.
“Ron took Rose to the playground,” Hermione said. “But I’m feeling fine. Why? You said Malfoy did the actual baking, right? It didn’t seem raw to me this time.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “But I reminded him to preheat the oven.”
“I’m sure that was very helpful,” Hermione said. “Though I’d have thought he’d have learned a spell for that as a professional baker.”
“Er. Right,” said Harry. “Do you think Ron would want company at the park?”
“They’ll be home soon, actually. We have to go pick up my parents from the airport.”
“Oh,” said Harry, realizing that meant they’d probably be busy for the next few days. No wonder their sitting room looked so clean. “Okay.”
“I’d better go, but we’ll let you know if anyone feels off. Thanks for checking on us, though.” Hermione smiled at him in a way that only Hermione could, simple and genuine and true, and he loved her fiercely, even as she believed him to be better than he was.
Harry hung up the call, but impulsively made another call before he stood up from the fireplace.
“Hey Gin,” he said when she answered. “Wanna go for a fly?”
“Hell yeah,” she said, putting down her laptop. “Meet me by the old Magpie-Birtwistle grounds in an hour?”
“Great,” said Harry. “Should I bring a Snitch?”
“You’d better,” she said. “Rosemary, too, if you want.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, and went to wake his owl. With her terrible eyesight she certainly wasn’t great at catching a Snitch, but she’d have loads of fun anyway. And though he’d already started to feel a little better, he took a swig of Fast-Acting Pepper-Up for good measure on the way out the door.
Flying for hours with Ginny was exactly what Harry had needed. They flew over rolling hills, occasionally calling out to each other when they turned tricks in the air, before they finally swung by a nature reserve, diving and looping right over the tree tips with Rosemary swooping around them as they went. Ginny had left her hair loose, and it streamed out like fire behind her, whipping in the wind.
By the time they landed and grabbed a pint after, Harry was exhausted, and even Gin was breathing a little heavily. “Cheers,” he offered, raising his glass of The Leaky’s finest.
“Cheers,” she said. “I’m glad we did this. It wasn’t weird at all.”
Harry laughed. “Me too.” They’d always been good at flying together, and he was glad that hadn’t changed, even if it had been years since the last time they’d done it.
“Are you heading home now? I should get back anyway. I have to finish an article for Quidditch Monthly,” she asked afterward, as they stood up to leave. She followed him out.
“Yes,” Harry said over the noise in the pub, repeating himself again as they stepped out into the bright sunshine, so she could hear. Rosemary flew down from the streetlamp to meet him, scuffling a bit as she landed on his head instead of his shoulder, but soon enough she hopped down cleanly, fixed her ruffled feathers, and let Gin give her a little scritch before Ginny waved goodbye.
“See you later, Harry,” she said, Apparating away.
“Ready to go, Rosemary?” Harry asked next, but then paused, barely hearing Rosemary’s affirmative hoot. He’d just caught sight of the street sign ahead. “Actually…you go on ahead. I’ll see you at home soon. See if you can find your glasses when you get there, okay?” He lifted his shoulder to give her a nudge into the air, and she took off for Grimmauld Place.
It only made sense, Harry told himself as he walked toward the street corner, to go by Malfoy’s bakery, given that he was already so close by. Vertic Alley was the next street over, and the bakery was only a block and a half from there. Besides, while the itchy, edgy feeling he’d carried around all morning was gone, the knot in his stomach quickly made itself known again. And even if Harry wasn’t sick, Harry was still bothered by the fact that Malfoy’s Amortentia bonbons hadn’t had any effect on him.
Gâteau Passionné was closed when he arrived, but he could see lights on, so he gave a little tug on the shop door. It stayed firmly locked, so he gave a knock on the glass and tugged a final time on the door handle. No luck, but given that it was approaching Sunday evening, even Harry had to admit it was reasonable for the bakery to be closed. He stepped back to read the little sign with the shop’s hours; it wasn’t open again until Tuesday morning.
Harry was about to leave when he saw the lights flick on inside the shop. Peering in, he could see Malfoy approaching the front door. With a flash of magic, the door unlocked, and Malfoy opened it.
“What do you want? You set off my wards.”
Harry stood tall. “I want to talk to you,” he said, though the extremely sensible reasons for this had, in fact, now vanished completely from his brain.
“It is not a good time.” Draco crossed his arms in front of him defensively.
“It’ll just take a minute,” Harry insisted.
Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “Potter, you stink. And you’ve been drinking. Go home.”
“I just had one beer. And I don’t stink.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Scourgify,” Malfoy said, and though Harry hated to admit it, he felt better afterward since he was no longer all sweaty from flying. He tried to smush his hair back into place.
Malfoy just watched him, his face inscrutable. “It’s still not a good time.”
“Why not?” Harry asked. “What are you doing back there?”
“I don’t know,” Malfoy said. “What would a baker possibly be doing that might be time-sensitive?”
“Oh,” said Harry. “Do you want help?”
“Yes.” Malfoy said. “Would you assist with the removal of the ogre currently occupying my doorstep?”
“I just want to talk to you for a minute,” Harry said again. He was interrupted by a beeping noise.
Draco let out a frustrated sound. “Fine. Come in. Just for a minute. But stay here. I have to go to the back to pull some pies out of the oven. I’ll be right back.”
Malfoy made his way back through the shop and around through to the kitchen, so Harry did as well, ignoring Draco’s instructions and receiving a blistering look for it, before eventually taking a seat and watching as Draco silenced the beeping and began to remove different pies and tarts from the ovens.
“It’s no use trying to keep you out, is there?” Malfoy grumped as he continued to pull things from the oven. “You always just waltz right in anyway.”
Harry just shrugged. “Did someone order all of these?” There were at least a dozen different desserts, and they all smelled good, but honestly, one was burnt, and another was cracked unattractively. If Malfoy thought he could sell people burnt pies, he probably wasn’t going to be in business much longer.
“No. I’m testing a new recipe. Now what do you want?” Malfoy began fanning the pies magically to cool them.
“What kind of new recipe?” Harry looked and thought he saw a peach pie, something with berries, what looked like a custard with fruit on top, and another that may have been treacle tart. It was the burnt one, but Harry’s mouth watered anyway. He hadn’t had treacle tart in many years. He remembered how good they were, though. Boy, did he remember. In fact… “I’ll help test them. You probably want an unbiased opinion, right? I’ll even taste the burnt one,” he offered magnanimously.
“It’s not that kind of a test; I was trying to evaluate the stability of a new pie crust given the potions additives I need to include to make them Passion Pies.” Draco paused. “Why am I even explaining this to you. Potter, for the love of Merlin, why are you here?”
“Oh. Er. I didn’t feel well this morning.”
Malfoy just looked at him.
“I thought maybe I’d eaten something yesterday that made me sick.”
“Like the cake?” Malfoy said, his voice cool.
“Yes. Well, no. See…” Harry got stuck. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t really think Malfoy had poisoned anyone, and the look in Malfoy’s eyes made it seem like any sort of suggestion to the contrary would be most unwelcome. He shifted gears quickly. “You shouldn’t be selling products that don’t work if you’re claiming that they do.” He felt he was back on firm ground with this point. “You could be reported to the Ministry for false advertisements.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t smell anything in your chocolates. They don’t work, at least not consistently. I’ve always been able to smell Amortentia before.”
“Potter—”
“Wait, not just that,” Harry insisted. “Your passion cake didn’t do anything either. You could get arrested if you’re claiming to sell these specialty products when they don’t do what you say.”
“What do you care?” Malfoy’s grey eyes flashed.
“What?” Harry’s mouth dropped open.
“Why do you care?” Draco looked at him.
"I—I don’t…I don’t care, okay. I don’t care about anything you do.” Harry crossed his arms and stood up. “I’ll report you myself.”
“All right,” Malfoy said. “Will you want to bring the Aurors by later this evening or tomorrow morning? I want to make sure I don’t leave the ovens on.”
“Fuck you,” Harry said. “I’m not going to have you arrested.”
“Are you sure? Because I can run upstairs and feed my crup if you want, and we can head down to the Ministry now.”
Harry hated Malfoy so much. “Fine.” Harry stormed across the kitchen and whirled back around to face Draco. “I just wanted to know why I don’t feel anything, okay?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he began to feel himself deflate.
Malfoy looked taken aback. “That’s what this is about? It’s not my fault you aren’t susceptible to potions like a normal person.”
Harry rallied. “Unless they don’t work.”
“Of course they work.” Malfoy scrubbed his face with his hand. “Salazar help me, but Potter, you’re the most powerful wizard of our time, and you always have been. You probably just need greater quantities to affect you.”
“What if I want to feel something?” Harry collapsed against a counter.
“What are you asking—I can’t just—I really will lose my license.”
Harry felt stupid about the suggestion he was about to make, but he quashed it quickly. “What if I ordered a whole cake. Then no one would know if I, you know, just had more than one piece. They couldn’t hold you responsible.”
“You can’t just go eat a whole cake alone without knowing what it will do to you. Trust me, it’s a really bad idea to do that without someone around whom you trust.” For some reason, Malfoy glanced at his little fig tree when he said this.
“Right. Well, never mind then. I’ll just be going. Mind if I Apparate from here.” It wasn’t really a question. Harry was just feeling a little sorry for himself. He never seemed to feel what everyone else was feeling, and realizing it was happening again exhausted him down to his bones.
“Wait.” Malfoy sighed. “Salazar, I’m such a fool,” he muttered to himself. “Potter, do you trust me?”
“Not in the least,” Harry said.
“Well, if you’d like to try, I was going to do some taste-testing this evening.” He gestured toward the counter, which was laden with the cooling desserts. “I suppose you could have a few bites of some. You might be able to consume enough to feel the effects if you taste a few types. You might just need a slice and a half or so. It would be a fairly easy way to test and monitor your reaction at small intervals in a relatively safe environment. The outcome would be interesting to me as well. On a purely academic level, of course.”
Harry looked around at all the pies. “What’s in them?”
“A varietal of the Lusty Loins Potion is in the pastry crust. I’m not sure which pies have the poison in them, so you’ll have to take your chances there.”
“Can we start with the treacle tart?”
Draco sighed heavily. “In for a Knut…” he murmured. “But I suppose we might as well do this right.” Draco Summoned two plates, forks, and a few serving utensils. He set two places across from each other on the island in the kitchen and then pulled up two counter stools. “Have a seat,” he instructed Harry.
Malfoy Levitated the treacle tart over to sit in between them, along with what looked like an apple pie, and a fruit tart with little kiwi slices, blueberries, and strawberries on top.
“Before we do this—” Malfoy looked at him carefully. “If this is some secret ploy to have me arrested, I swear I will have Pansy hunt you down until the end of your days. Believe me when I say the breadth of her repertoire of hexes pertaining to the male anatomy is particularly impressive.”
“Eh,” said Harry, eying the desserts. “Ron’s busy tonight anyway.”
Malfoy cut them each a slice of the treacle tart, a very thin piece for himself, and a healthier size for Harry. “And I will not be blamed if you eat too much of this and have a strong reaction; is that clear?”
When Harry agreed, verbally and in writing, because Malfoy was a wanker, he was finally handed his piece of the tart.
Harry had never been able to turn down treacle tart, and he wasn’t about to start now. He tucked in immediately, and found it melted in his mouth. It was some of the best he’d ever had. After another bite, he looked up to say so but found Draco delicately eating his first small forkful, after which, he made a face.
“I wouldn’t normally have…that is. It’s darker than I would have—It should have come out of the oven sooner, but I was interrupted by a git at the door despite it being half six on a Sunday,” Malfoy said, though it was largely lost on Harry, who was happily scarfing down the rest of his slice, completely unbothered by the dark crust.
Once his plate was clean, Harry asked, “So how long does it take to work?”
“You may start to feel a little something after maybe ten or fifteen minutes.”
Licking his lips, Harry asked, “Does that mean we should try another?” In his defence, Draco had cut him a relatively modest slice of the tart and Harry hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“I…sure.” Malfoy cast a quick Scourgify to Harry’s plate and reached for the apple pie. It was possible it smelled even better than the treacle.
He placed a more substantial piece of the thick apple pie on Harry’s plate.
“Are you going to have some?” Harry asked.
“Not yet,” Malfoy said. “I’m still working on my first piece.”
Frowning, Harry noticed Malfoy had only had maybe two neat little bites, tops. “Don’t you like it?” he asked. If he didn’t like it, Harry could finish it for him. It wouldn’t be much work at all.
“No, I’m simply taking my time to be able to evaluate it more thoroughly,” Malfoy explained. Harry thought this was a bit silly, because it was delicious, and so what else was there to know? Malfoy took another small bite, though, and gestured to Harry. “Go on, then.”
Harry picked up his fork, but then paused, suddenly realizing he was missing ice cream. He frowned. It would probably be okay without it.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s just that sometimes I like ice cream on warm apple pie. Have you had it?”
“Good grief. What sort of uncultured swine do you think I am, to ruin a perfectly good pie with ice cream. It sounds dreadful.”
“Well, you don’t have to be a prat about it,” Harry said. “You should try it; it’s great.” Maybe it was a Muggle thing. He wasn’t sure whether to bring that up, though, considering Draco was sharing all his pies.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Accio vanilla ice cream.”
When it flew into his hand, he handed it to Harry. “There. Ruin my magnificent creation.”
“Did you just call your own baking magnificent?” Harry added a scoop onto the top of his pie. It began to melt quickly on the warm pie and began dripping down the sides.
“Do you disagree?” Malfoy said, brow raised.
Harry couldn’t answer because he’d just put a giant bite of apple pie in his mouth and was moaning in delight.
Malfoy cleared his throat and swallowed heavily. He looked down at his own plate, pushing around his treacle tart before having another tiny bite.
“My god,” Harry said. “This is amazing.”
Dropping his fork with a clatter, Malfoy stood up. “I’ll just—I’ll just make some tea, shall I?” He went and flicked on the kettle, and began opening and closing cabinets, as though he didn’t know where he kept his own mugs. He eventually returned with two, proceeding to putter around with the tea-making until he eventually brought it to the table.
Looking at Malfoy—really looking—Harry realized he’d grown into his features, with his long limbs, slender build, and white-blond hair falling over his silvery grey eyes. He wanted—he wanted the Passion Flour to work very, very badly.
“Thanks,” Harry said, when Malfoy poured their tea, just as he was just finishing his apple pie. He sat back and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you’re looking for in the crust, but that pie was amazing.”
Malfoy made a small sound and took a small sip of his tea, though Harry could tell it was extremely hot. He blew on his and had a little slurp, which confirmed it.
“So, you have a dog?” Harry asked.
“Excuse me?” Malfoy asked.
“A crup. Before. You said you had a crup.”
“Oh, yes. Her name is Voldemortia after my childhood hero, and I serve her innocent Muggle children for breakfast and then she has playdates with—No, Potter, I do not have a dog.”
“But you said—”
“I was being sarcastic.”
Harry took a drink of tea. “You could have a dog.”
“I know I could have a dog.”
“But,” Harry insisted. “I mean you could really have a dog. If you wanted one.”
Malfoy just looked at him.
“Or an owl. Or a cat.”
“I do not want a cat.”
“Why not? You just feed them kibble. It comes in a bag. Much easier than capturing children.”
“I’m not getting a cat, Potter.”
“I’m just saying.”
As he sipped his tea, it dawned on Harry that he was enjoying himself immensely. With Malfoy. He was enjoying Malfoy’s company. Being angry with Malfoy was a hobby of Harry’s, but this might have been even better. Likely because of all the pie. He really wished the Passion Flour would start working.
Harry pushed his mug forward. “Mind if I?”
“Help yourself.”
Harry poured himself more tea, and it didn’t take long before he was ready for more pie, too. He eyed the fruit tart before them before scanning the other pies Draco had taken out of the oven, still sitting out to cool on the counter beside the ovens. Peach caught his eye, as did cherry. Mincemeat. Custard tarts. Harry supposed the point was to test the crust to see how it worked to support all manner of fillings.
“Er. So is there another one you wanted tested?” Harry asked eventually as Malfoy calmly sipped his tea. He cast a cleaning spell on his plate and fork, in case Malfoy said yes.
“Do you have your eye on one in particular?”
“Cherry,” Harry said immediately, and Draco nodded in acquiescence.
Putting down his tea, Malfoy Summoned the cherry pie, and served Harry a piece. “You might want to take it slow,” he said, looking a little hesitant.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Harry said. “My stomach can hold a lot of pie.”
“That’s becoming quite clear. I meant because of the Passion additive in the pastry.”
“Should I be feeling something already?” Harry asked.
“I would have thought so,” Malfoy said a touch defensively. “But then, I don’t have the brawn of a fully-grown centaur.”
Harry realized then that Malfoy still had at least half of his first piece still on his plate. He’d been picking at it, but… was Malfoy feeling the effects after just that?
Harry dug into the cherry pie. It was basically the best thing he’d ever eaten.
“Oh my god,” he groaned. “You should sell this.”
Malfoy snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Harry grinned at him and took another bite, and it was just as good. “Malfoy, seriously.”
“Oh, you just like it because it’s Gryffindor’s colour,” Malfoy said, but he seemed to be actually glowing a little. It was a good look on him, probably because it wasn’t one he couldn’t have practiced.
Harry took a drink of tea to cleanse his palate and then went back for another bite. He moaned, the plump sweet-tart cherries bursting on his tongue, complemented by the salty flaky buttery crust.
Malfoy’s eyes darkened, and he took another small bite of his treacle tart, before pushing the rest of his plate away.
“Are you done already?” Harry asked, licking his fork.
“I’ve had more than enough,” Draco said, Vanishing the remainder.
Despite his bold claims regarding the size of his stomach, Harry was feeling quite full, and he only barely managed to finish the last of his cherry pie, washing it down with the remainder of his tea. “I don’t think I can help taste the others tonight,” he admitted.
“Reached your limit at last? And how do you feel?”
“Fine,” Harry said. “A bit full, but it was worth it. Those pies were really amazing.”
Malfoy nodded. “Glad you liked them. Nothing…else?” he asked casually.
“Oh,” said Harry. “No, actually. Nothing.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “I suppose we could give the cherry pie a few more minutes. If not, there’s only one more thing I can think of, but…”
“You know,” Harry said, already completely satisfied already by the time he’d spent eating all the delicious pie with Malfoy. “I… it’s actually okay, if not. I mean, this was. This was all right, you know. The pie. It’s really good without the special effects. I actually had a good time.” Harry found he didn’t mind it hadn’t worked, not at all really.
Malfoy reddened. “Well of course you had a good time. You just sat there, and I served you some of my best work.”
Harry offered him a tentative smile. “I should probably be going. Should I help clean up?”
“Yes,” Malfoy said. “And no. You’d break my dishes with your wild magic.”
“Thank you,” Harry said. “For helping me try…with the pie crusts.”
Malfoy nodded, an unintelligible look on his face, and showed Harry to the front door, where he could safely Apparate home.
—xXx—
Traditional carrot cake.
Passion roly-poly.
Catering order for twelve dozen fairy cakes of mixed flavours.
Passion birthday cake for Addison (age twenty-one).
Two Battenberg cakes for what Draco predicted would turn into a lively afternoon tea among friends.
It was a moderate number of orders for Draco to fill on a day when the shop was closed. He simply needed them finished by Tuesday morning for early pickups. But despite the reasonable workload, he soon realized it was a very good thing that he’d had enough practice in the past such that their execution required little of his attention, because that is precisely the amount Draco gave them. He was distracted all day, largely because of Potter. Stupid Potter, he amended. Stupid Potter who refused to leave his brain. But then something else was niggling at his mind, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. By noon, he thought it might very well be enough to cause him to go mad, the way his brain kept catching on some unknown detail.
Since his baking was not getting his full attention anyway, Draco began to consider Potter’s resistance to his potions as he scooped batter into fairy cake tins. He didn’t think Harry was messing about with him; Draco could see he wasn’t affected in the normally visible ways.
As Draco put the fairy cakes into the ovens, the only thing he could think was that the Passion Powder both amplified innate feelings of desire and lust and also loosened inhibitions. Potter might have experienced a little of the latter, but Draco didn’t know him well enough anymore to tell. As for the former, perhaps Harry just didn’t feel that way about anything right now, and thus there was nothing to amplify. Lots of people went through periods like that; understanding this was crucial to Draco’s own business.
While the fairy cakes were baking, which wouldn’t take long, Draco began to prepare the fruits and veg for the carrot cake, magically chopping and shredding and dicing. The fairy cakes were then set aside to cool, and Draco again let his thoughts roam to Harry.
The thing was… Draco had an idea. A far, far stupider idea than letting Potter eat all his trial pies in a failed attempt to feel things. There was one potion he kept that worked differently. It was something he never baked with because it couldn’t be reheated, but it could go into a trifle or sweet. And he used it only for very specific purposes, with clients he knew personally when there was a unique situation at hand that called for it, because he felt the creation of desire from nothing was never something to be taken lightly. Even if many of the same effects could be found in some of the more potent love potions, and even though his potion was temporary, lasting only a few hours, Draco wanted no part of it from a business standpoint.
But. He could possibly give Potter a chocolate with a drop or two in it. Oh, Merlin, just the thought of that made Draco’s knees weak. There was no use pretending otherwise.
Draco paused his racing brain to focus on gathering the ingredients for the Battenberg cakes. Butter, sugar, Passion Flour, eggs, baking powder, vanilla, ground almonds, almond extract…
If Draco was there when Harry ate it… What if—what if Potter didn’t want him to leave? Would he be able to make himself go? He’d have to. Perhaps he could take a Portkey. Potter might suddenly want someone, and Draco would be nearest…No, Draco would not let himself. Not let Potter. He wouldn’t let himself be used like that, even for Harry Potter.
Salazar, it was such a terrible idea, playing with fire, and Draco did not like fire.
Besides, the Amortentia bonbons hadn’t had any effect on Harry either, and that worked more similarly to Draco’s special potion than to his traditional Passion Powder, so maybe it wouldn’t work anyway.
He stopped what he was doing, setting the ground almonds he’d been measuring aside, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself.
The almond scent he breathed in was heavy in the air, as it always was when making Battenberg cakes. The scent of the Passion Powder in the flour always worked so well in this recipe, intensifying the other ingredients already used.
He took another deep breath. It was one of his very favourite scents.
Draco stopped short and opened his eyes. The other night at Andromeda’s, Potter had chosen a caramel sweet. Harry should have smelled caramel or maybe some coconut from the sweet sitting next to it in the box. But Potter’s scents had been chocolate, vanilla, and almond. Draco hadn’t even made any almond sweets.
The timer went off on the ovens, and Draco snapped into gear, pulling the carrot cakes out and setting them on the cooling racks.
Once everything was out of the oven, Draco cast a Stasis spell on all the baked goods, in their various stages of readiness. Then he sat down and Summoned a tall glass of water.
He looked around.
Chocolate, the ever-present scent that lingered throughout his kitchen.
Vanilla, which always seemed to cling to Draco no matter how often he washed after baking.
And almond, the scent of the Passion Powder, Potter desiring desire.
It couldn’t be. Certainly not. Or could it?
He supposed there was one way to find out.
—xXx—
Harry’s doorbell rang unexpectedly at 7:05 p.m., precisely five minutes after the wireless broadcast began for the Puddlemere United vs. Montrose Magpies game.
“Who?” asked Rosemary.
“I don’t know,” Harry told her. “Guess I’d better go find out.” He turned down the program and went to the door, startled to find Malfoy on his front stoop. He was dressed in trim grey trousers, a white button down, and a grey waist coat. There was not a sprinkling of flour anywhere to be seen.
Harry felt warm. It was a warm night.
“Um, hullo?” said Harry, swallowing his reaction to the look. “How did you know where I—”
“Andromeda,” Malfoy said. “I have something for you, but I’d prefer not to speak of it here. Could I trouble you to come inside?”
“One minute.” Harry ducked back inside and shut the door most of the way, so Draco couldn’t see him wave a quick cleaning spell toward the sitting room. In fact…he waved another spell at the kitchen, and then a final one at the whole house, hoping that his various messes sorted themselves into at least slightly fewer embarrassing messes before Malfoy saw them. “All right,” Harry said, opening the door fully once more. “I suppose you can come in. Unless you plan to hex me, in which case, we might as well do that here. I don’t have my wand on me, but I can Summon it if you don’t mind waiting.”
“I hadn’t planned on hexing you, though now that you’ve put the idea in my head, I quite enjoy it.”
“I’ll add it to the itinerary.” Harry turned and went inside. “Shut the door behind you,” he called back to Draco. “And don’t look behind the curtains on the stairs. Black magic is nasty business.”
“I didn’t know you dabbled in it,” Malfoy commented, probably trying to make a joke.
“No,” Harry said. “Black as in Walburga. And Regulus.”
Malfoy quickly stepped away from the curtains to the far side of the stairs and gingerly moved past the area. “Another time then.”
Leading them to his sitting room, Harry turned off the wireless completely. “So, you can have a seat, I guess. If you want.” He gestured to the old sofa and even older recliner, but Malfoy just sort of stood there looking out of place in his doorway. His eyes were wider than usual as he took in Harry’s space. Eventually they settled on Rosemary.
“Ah,” he said. “Edward’s hero.”
“Teddy,” Harry corrected. “I had to remove spiders from McGonagall’s office for months to be able to have Rosemary deliver that letter. It was worth it though. And I swore I’d be there in case she accidentally delivered it to the wrong person.” It sometimes happened, that Rosemary gave it to a person who looked similar or was standing one to the right of the intended recipient. Once she even dropped a letter into a Muggle mailbox, thinking she’d given it to Andromeda’s house-elf.
Malfoy nodded.
“So,” Harry said, unsure whether to sit or stand or do with Draco Malfoy standing in his sitting room. He looked around. “Do you want to sit then? Or I could make tea…”
“Tea would be fine.”
“Right.” Harry went into the kitchen to put on the kettle, catching a hint of the vanilla that must have clung to all of Draco’s clothing when he passed him. Malfoy eventually followed Harry through to the kitchen and seated himself at the table, watching Harry move about the kitchen.
“I brought something for you,” Malfoy said, as Harry had his head in a cabinet looking for an unopened package of biscuits.
“Okay,” Harry said, turning to Draco. “Is it going to blow me up or give me tongue slugs?”
“No,” Malfoy said. “I’m saving that those for your birthday.”
“What then?” Harry asked, giving up on the biscuits and bringing over the teapot and mugs. “Milk or sugar?”
“No. This is fine.”
Draco pulled a little tiny box from his trouser pocket and slid it across the table as Harry sat down across from him.
Harry eyed it, but unable to resist, opened the plain little box. Inside, there was one chocolate bonbon, rather like the ones they’d had at Teddy’s party. He looked up at Draco, confused.
“Smell it,” Draco said.
“Amortentia?” Harry asked.
“Yes.”
Harry picked it up and took a deep breath. “Nothing,” he said. “Chocolate, vanilla, and almond. Has your potion expired maybe? Or did you—”
“It works,” Draco interrupted.
“No,” Harry said slowly. “I just smell the bonbon.”
“There’s no almond in it. There’s no vanilla either, actually.”
Harry frowned and took another sniff. “Was it set next to something with almond? One of your tarts maybe?”
“No. Nothing.” Malfoy folded his hands in his lap. “You’re smelling chocolate, vanilla, and almond because of the Amortentia.”
Harry shook his head. “No, Amortentia makes me smell my broom, and…Ginny, and…”
“Not anymore, it doesn’t.”
“Then what do I…”
Malfoy sipped his tea, his long fingers curling around his mug as though to warm them.
Harry’s mind went blank.
“No,” Harry said, answering his own question. “Well, what about the almond then? I can’t even think of anything that smells of almond…”
Draco put the mug down slowly. “It’s only a theory…but it might be the Passion Powder.”
“But why would I…” He felt himself hunch over his tea.
“I believe it might be indicating that you desire desire,” Malfoy said carefully.
Embarrassed and feeling especially vulnerable, Harry looked at the chocolate, and then at Draco. “I don’t, you know. Feel that. Even though you smell like--I’m not like, in love, or something.” He didn’t know what he felt for Draco, though, was the problem.
“Of course not.” Draco’s voice changed then, growing tighter. “It may also benefit you to know that Amortentia has recently begun to smell differently to me, too.”
“Oh?” Harry said, cautiously.
“Mmmhmm. I suddenly find myself inhaling quite a lot of treacle tart.”
Harry swallowed.
Malfoy took another sip of tea, swirling his mug a little. “There’s one more thing. There’s something in the chocolate. In the centre. It’s a potion I’ve made. It works differently than the Passion Powder. It creates desire instead of amplifying it. It’s only a few drops, but…it’s quite potent. If you wanted to, you could try it.”
“Oh.” Harry looked at it again.
“I’ll just…I’ll just give you a minute. Mind if I use the loo?” Draco’s voice sounded odd.
“Of course.” Harry pointed out the right door down the hall. He spent the intervening minutes staring, eyes glazed over, at the chocolate.
“What if I didn’t want to eat it?” Harry said, when Draco returned, looking slightly more composed.
“Then you wouldn’t,” Draco said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“But…what if I wanted to keep trying more pies, with the Passion Flour, I mean. What if I wanted you to show me how to make them. In case it starts working for me.”
Draco was still standing beside the table where Harry sat. “Then I would think you’d want to spend a lot of time in the bakery, observing and taste-testing,” Draco said. “And if you wanted to taste some of the cake recipes that don’t include Passion Flour, that would be fine too. I was thinking of adding pound cakes, and those would need some testing.”
“I would help,” Harry stated, for clarification.
“It might not be terrible to have a second opinion on such matters.”
Harry chewed his lip. “And if I did want to eat the chocolate?”
“I believe you’d want to consider whether you want to consume it alone, and if not, who you would like to be present with you.”
“So now wouldn’t be a good time then, for example.” Harry stood without looking at Draco and started taking the tea paraphernalia to the sink, Summoning what he couldn’t carry directly himself.
Draco paused before responding. “I wouldn’t say it’s necessarily a poor time either.”
“You smell like vanilla,” Harry said, turning around at his sink to face Draco.
“So I’ve been told.”
Harry nodded. “How long would it last?”
“Not long. Maybe an hour.”
Harry was curious. And confused. He was curious to know what Ron and Hermione, and Hannah and Neville, Angelina and Leslie, and Luna and Cho and lots of other people felt when they saw their spouses or partners or lovers. And Malfoy, who he’d only ever seen one way, was now letting Harry see bits and pieces of himself, and Harry found that incredibly compelling. Or maybe Draco had tried before, but Harry had refused to look. But now that he’d been forced to see Draco, he wanted to know more about him, wanted to spend time with him. The Amortentia clearly knew it too. And if there was still another way to see Draco Malfoy, then Harry found he wanted to very, very badly.
“Are you offering to stay?”
Draco’s hand tightened but then relaxed at his side. He breathed out slowly, his eyelids heavy. “Should you wish it.”
“I don’t want you,” Harry said.
“I know.”
“But I want to want you.”
“I know,” said Draco, again, his voice soft but firm. “That is why I’m still here.”
“This is just once. You only made one chocolate.”
“I thought it best.” Draco’s eyes were dark, his lips slightly parted.
Harry picked up the little white box with the perfect little chocolate inside that Draco had made for him. Harry hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. Plucking it from the box, he put it into his mouth. The inside burst onto his tongue, a cherry, with decadent syrup. He couldn’t taste the potion in it, but he hadn’t necessarily expected to either.
Draco’s breath hitched.
Harry looked at him as a warmth rose in his belly, and at first it felt a little like when he was having tea with Hermione, but it grew, and changed, and then it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as tea with Hermione. Harry’s heart began to beat faster, and he could feel himself drawn to Draco, and he didn’t just want to share another cup of tea with him. He swallowed. He wanted…he didn’t know what. Everything, maybe. How did people deal with this?
“Harry,” Draco said, his voice low. And, oh, the timbre of it made pangs of desire reverberate throughout Harry’s body. It was almost too much. He felt himself blush furiously.
He didn’t know what to do with the hot rush of feelings, except perhaps, run and hide, but something in Draco’s eyes kept him pinned to his spot.
Draco took a half step closer. He was beautiful. He was so, so beautiful. Too beautiful. “How do you feel?"
Harry shuddered. “It’s…different,” he croaked. “It’s a lot.”
“It can be,” Draco said. “Would you like—”
“Yes,” Harry said. Whatever Draco had been about to offer, Harry wanted it.
Draco’s eyes darkened perceptibly, and he took another step closer. He smelled like vanilla. Harry wanted to die, except that then Draco came the rest of the way around the table and placed his hand behind Harry’s head, curling his fingers through Harry’s hair. He pulled Harry in closer and kissed him lightly, just the softest brush of his lips.
A little sound escaped from Harry’s throat, and Draco pulled away, looking into Harry’s eyes. Harry grasped at Draco's shirt for dear life as a rush of heady feelings washed over him. “Again?” he asked softly, tilting his face back up to Draco’s.
Draco met his lips without hesitation, and Harry began to kiss him back. It was wonderful and awful and exhilarating, and he didn’t ever want to stop. Draco’s other hand found Harry’s neck, and he looked like he wanted to devour Harry, and the rush from that was like nothing else Harry’d known.
When Draco began walking backwards into Harry’s sitting room, Harry trailed behind him, kissing him urgently, not even pausing when Rosemary squawked and vacated the room. Harry flung a one-handed cushioning charm at her without even looking her way.
Draco backed into Harry’s old couch, sat down, and pulled Harry down with him. Harry went, eager for more of Draco’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, his body. Harry pulled Draco closer, wanting him fiercely, his dark eyes, his slender wrists, his sharp jaw, his scent. Harry couldn’t even bring himself to stop to revel in the desire, he was so mad with it. He tasted the pale expanse of Draco’s throat, and Draco groaned and clawed at his head. It drove Harry wild.
Grabbing a cushion, Draco leaned back until he rested his head on it, pulling Harry down with him, one of Harry’s knees between Draco’s legs.
“For the next hour,” Draco said, his voice rough and drenched in desire. “I want your lips on mine; no exceptions.”
“Yes,” Harry breathed into Draco’s mouth. “Yes.”
—xXx—
3 large eggs, room temperature (do not use magic)
2 vanilla beans selected and blessed by native Madagascar fairies, where available
1/4 teaspoon salt gathered from the sea during a full moon
150g cake flour, sifted magically
150g castor sugar (NOT salt, Potter!)
185g unsalted butter, room temperature (do not let Potter melt butter!)
1 tablespoon Passion Powder (optional)
“Son of a Centaur,” Draco muttered, seeing the tawny owl feather from Rosemary that had just fallen into his mixing bowl.
Plucking it from his pound cake batter, he sighed heavily. He was already running behind since he’d spent all morning creating another single specialty chocolate for Harry’s birthday.
They’d continued to spend time together the past few months, occasionally baking together or going flying, and once they’d even had dinner with the Weasley-Grangers. They also ate far more dessert together than could be healthy. Draco didn’t care.
Vanishing the entire contents of the bowl, Draco began to measure ingredients for a new cake. Salazar, if things went on like this, Draco was going to have to find a better way to remove the owl feathers that continually attached themselves to his clothing.
Every once in a while, provided Harry continued to smell vanilla bean along with his chocolate and almond, Draco was happy to donate a few drops of his special potion into a little treat they could share. It was a rare indulgence, as Harry generally found taking it to be completely overwhelming (Draco agreed), but once in a while, they happily indulged.
Once he had all the ingredients measured and all owl feathers Banished from his bakery, Draco started incorporating all of the ingredients together again in the bowl, knowing Harry would be by in a few short hours to taste the finished results.
Precisely 150 grams castor sugar.
185 grams butter, softened to the perfect consistency with a practiced flick of his wrist and brief incantation.
Eggs next. Two from local chickens and then the third from a most uncooperative Ashwinder, the yolks brightening the pale mixture to a sunny yellow.
Vanilla beans, scraped magically.
Draco reached for the flour. This time, with passion.