Harry found himself strangely reluctant to part ways with the castle the next morning. He even almost thought about asking Draco at breakfast if he wanted to go down to Hogsmeade together and wander around just to draw out the inevitable trip back to Grimmauld Place. Maybe they could even have lunch together.

But then he remembered what had happened at the feast last night and felt a bit awkward about it. Was this really so strange, though? Didn't coworkers spend time together? What did they think was so suspicious about him and Draco?

He looked over at Draco, who was petting Saphronia with a small, indulgent smile, rewarding her horrid behaviour as she stole a sausage from his plate.

"Pretty soon you're going to forget how to hunt," Draco admonished, but he failed to sound like he really meant it. "You'll just fatten yourself up on sausages, and then what will you do when there's nobody to steal from, hm?"

She hooted softly, and he rubbed her cheek affectionately with his thumb and sighed. "I suppose I'll let you get away with it. Only because you're a very pretty bird."

Hmm. Maybe they...were kind of...friendly.

Harry had very reluctantly admitted to himself that they talked and spent time together out of more than just rivalry, even if he sometimes liked to pretend he hadn't, but they did it out of necessity. At least, he thought so. They were sort of...involved a little more than they had to be, though, he hesitantly acknowledged. Draco was friendly with his owl, and had even been the one to name her. And...Harry kind of liked Draco's company. Draco wasn't such a prat anymore, and, he didn't know. They kind of got on well?

But just because they might be friends, and might have been friendly for a while didn't really mean anything particular! Harry had plenty of friends! Nobody had ever accused him of wanting to bonk Neville, so he didn't know why this was any different.

~*~

Draco spent the first part of his summer holidays doing some Thinking™.

He had noticed some little things here and there, and had had a sneaking suspicion that some people thought he and Harry may be together for whatever reason, but he'd never expected a few ridiculous, unfounded rumours to blow up into something so spectacular. But it did make him think a bit.

He had been trying to tell himself that he and Harry weren't friends, not really — although he'd long since stopped trying to delude himself that he didn't enjoy his company. Honestly, the idea of Harry bloody Potter, The Boy Who Lived and Draco Malfoy, Death Eater and former school rival being friends was ridiculous. It was just something that was not meant to be, and Draco told himself he shouldn't get his hopes up about it.

But— But having it all laid out like that — how close they actually were, even if none of it meant what those silly little students thought it did — just really drove home in a way that knocked the breath straight out of him the inescapable conclusion that they might just already be friends, regardless of their thoughts on the matter.

That was indeed the problem, though. Their thoughts on the matter. Harry had seemed... Well, Harry had seemed rather bothered during that disaster at the End-of-Term Feast. Perhaps it was the idea of being thought to be so closely involved with another man in general, rather than Draco specifically that was bothering him, but that didn't make sense to Draco. Hadn't he been raised by Muggles?

Admittedly, Draco didn't know much about Muggle customs, but he had been taught that they were often the opposite of the more 'civilised' wizarding ones, and the wizarding world in general was pretty accepting nowadays, but pure-blood tradition still tended to disapprove of queer relationships. Families hushed them up and sometimes even turned to Dark spells and potions to ensure more 'proper' matches, all in the name of fulfilling their duty and carrying on their bloodline.

Certainly it was not something Draco's parents would have allowed for him in his past life (though he didn't think they would go so far as to force him). But he was expected to produce an heir and carry on the family name, like all of the rest before him, and anything else just wouldn't do.

Now their name was thoroughly in ruins, though, and Father was in Azkaban, and it mattered little what Draco did anymore. He'd already accepted that rejecting his parents' arranged marriage proposal meant he would spend the rest of his days alone and that he would be the last of his bloodline. He had made his peace with it, and if his mother hadn't, she at least never talked about it.

He thought she could take some small consolation that the Black line would continue through her sister's grandchild — though he didn't exactly know how she felt about a half-werewolf child.

Harry, at least, adored Teddy and talked about him often, but it made Draco feel a little odd sometimes that Harry knew his cousin so much better than he did. But of course Harry was the beloved godfather, and Draco was from the bad branch of the family that he was sure Aunt Andromeda wanted nothing to do with. Draco had never even met the child, and it would likely stay that way.

Draco clucked his tongue in annoyance at himself and turned sharply away from the window he'd been gazing blankly out of. What a terrible thing the way his thoughts just wouldn't stop veering toward Harry bloody Potter, as if he were some sort of magnet. Ridiculous. Draco needed to get ahold of himself.

~*~

By the middle of July, Draco's mood was rather dark. It had only been a couple weeks, but he found himself missing Harry and he hated himself for it. He was entirely too used to seeing him every day, and he couldn't even distract himself by going to see his mother, because when he'd popped by on his first day back from Hogwarts, she just hadn't stopped harping on about him visiting Azkaban with her the entire time. So, needless to say, he was now actively avoiding the manor again with no plans to return.

He had told her — told her too many times to count, by now — that he wanted to see her (wanted to talk to her, didn't like leaving her all alone in that big empty house with nobody but a single remaining house-elf for company), but that he wasn't ever going to go back to Azkaban, and that he wasn't going to visit the manor if she kept talking about it.

He hated it. He hated the way the word crackled in the throat of whoever said it, like mad cackling, like metal scraping and grinding against stone. He hated the way it smelled dank and musty and dark. It was a cold, dismal, lonely word and he didn't like it one bit, and he didn't like even more that he felt guilty about it, that he wouldn't let his mother speak it without leaving. Clearly she wanted to, clearly she could go back, clearly she just wanted to tell him, just wanted Father to be able to see him, but he just— he couldn't. The thought of it alone sent chills down his spine like the creeping touch of a Dementor's skeletal fingers.

However, with his mother firmly crossed off of the list as an option for a distraction, Draco was once again slapped harshly with the realisation that he had no friends in this country — excepting, he supposed, Harry now.

All of his Hogwarts friends (if they could even properly be called friends) had cut contact after the war, once he was no longer an advantageous ally, and many of their remaining families had fled abroad to escape the social stigma around their part in the war.

Draco couldn't exactly blame them for that, since that was exactly what he'd done too, as soon as his year-long house arrest was up.

Minerva had allowed him to sit N.E.W.T.s with that year's graduating class, even though he hadn't completely attended his own seventh year and the teaching had been abysmal regardless. He'd been more grateful than he feared he'd been able to properly express for the way she'd gone out of her way to get him an exemption from the Ministry to travel by portkey straight to the gates outside of Hogwarts and back every day over the course of the exam week, whilst an Auror stationed at the school watched him like a hawk. It was as if they genuinely thought he might stand up in the middle of trying to explain the intricacies of werewolf legislation and its greater effects, and start hurling curses at the other students busy writing their own essays.

As soon as he'd gotten his N.E.W.T.s, though, he had immediately looked into apprenticeships abroad and found a potions apprenticeship in France willing to take him.

He'd gotten nine N.E.W.T.s, and that had apparently been just enough to secure him a spot with such a competitive placement: six Outstandings (in Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, History Of Magic, Astronomy, and Ancient Runes), one Exceeds Expectations in Defence Against The Dark Arts, and then he had managed to eke by with two Acceptables in Herbology and Care Of Magical Creatures (in no small part due to his knowledge of potions ingredients).

His education may have been going to shit at the end, and it may have been a while since he'd actually been in a classroom, but there hadn't been much to do but study whilst stuck in the manor under house arrest. It was a bit harder with things he couldn't properly practise hands-on, so a few subjects had fallen to the wayside on the practical side of things, but he'd at least studied theory well, and he had plenty of time alone to charm his pillows to tapdance across the room and summon unsuspecting rabbits to practise transfiguring them into increasingly more elaborate music boxes a few times before sending them on their way again out the window to scarper back off into the forest, a little confused, but hopefully no worse for wear.

He'd gone out in the back gardens most nights to look up at the stars, sometimes actually using his telescope and working on star charts, but often just lying there on his back on the cool flagstone between the rose trellises, with their softly glowing dusky pink petals.

Mother had bred them herself, and, as far as he knew, nobody else had roses quite like these, but they had wilted whilst the Dark Lord was inflicting his presence on the manor, and even by the last time Draco had visited, having tea with her out in the back gardens, they still didn't seem to be fully recovering yet. Their previously enchanting glow, bright as moonbeams reflecting off the snow in the dead of winter, was now weak and dull, and the flowers drooped as if they couldn't quite hold their heads up. Mother still tended to her garden with care, though — it was how she spent most of her time. That and embroidery, which she had taken up during the Dark Lord's residence, seemingly out of stress and a desperate need to occupy herself and look busy. Draco supposed that need was not over yet.

Draco's nights looking up at the stars behind the manor had been nice, he supposed — it had been good, at least, to have something peaceful to do when he couldn't sleep for all the intrusive memories in his head — but he didn't miss them. The manor was... He was glad to be away from it. It had been difficult to be trapped there for a year after all of the things that had taken place in it.

Going back to Hogwarts for his N.E.W.T.s had been even more difficult.

That had actually been his biggest concern, that the anxiety from suddenly being back at Hogwarts — hardly more than a year after the Final Battle and the two years from hell — would be too distracting for him and make it difficult to do well on the exams. He knew he had studied well, that wasn't the problem, but the memories, the ghosts that haunted those halls, real and imaginary...they were hard to handle.

The twits at the Ministry had tried to insist he travel there by Floo for their convenience, but he had categorically refused. He didn't care if the flames were green and without a hint of the form of a creature in them, he didn't care if they didn't burn to the touch; that much fire (let alone stepping into it) had been enough to make his breathing start coming fast and make him start to sweat at that point. He was mostly better about it now, but sometimes when he went into the Hogwarts kitchens, if he stared at the ever-roaring, lively fireplace in there for too long, it made his hands start to shake a bit. Draco still had never ventured back up to the seventh floor in the entire year he'd been back there teaching. He didn't know what had become of the Room of Hidden Things, but he couldn't afford to be curious — couldn't bring himself to go near.

Even though Draco had managed to avoid using the Floo to attend his N.E.W.T.s, though, going back to Hogwarts so soon had been distressing. The way he could blatantly see the difference in the new, flawless, white stone right next to the dark, weathered grey that was so familiar to him had been a horrid reminder of all that had been violently shattered. The way some of the suits of armour shined too brightly and the way many of the classrooms had moved themselves in ways he'd never known them to do before felt like an accusation.

This was no longer the home he had known for seven years, and it was his fault.

The trick stair was two steps earlier than it used to be, and it was a Tuesday, yet the Transfiguration classroom was on the fourth floor instead of the second, when everybody knew it was only supposed to move on Wednesdays, and it was only supposed to move one corridor over on the second floor. But he was left perfectly lost and out of the loop, because Hogwarts knew he was an outsider now, and he shouldn't know these things. (And then he had been fucking hired at Hogwarts so many years later, and he knew it still wasn't the same castle and that it still didn't want him, but this was the only job he'd been offered, goddammit, and if he had to beg Minerva to come two weeks early so he could get the lay of the land and force the castle to accept him, whether he deserved it or not, then he would do it. What other choice did he have?)

It had been distracting during the exams, there was no denying that, but he had prevailed. He'd closed his eyes and forced himself to ignore where he was and sternly directed his brain to all of the things he'd been studying whilst on house arrest. And it had mostly worked. He couldn't say his performance had been completely unimpacted, but he'd done well enough, and he'd gotten the fucking apprenticeship he'd needed to get the fuck out of Britain as soon as his house arrest had ended.

France had been good for him. It had been really good for him.

Part of him had been a little homesick, but he was homesick for something that wasn't there. Britain was not the way it used to be, and, importantly, it didn't fucking want him there.

Nobody did, except for maybe his mother, but all he ever seemed to do anymore was disappoint her anyway. He'd refused to visit Father in Azkaban as soon as they'd been allowed, and rejected their arranged marriage for him, denying them any real glimmer of hope for a helping hand at pulling the Malfoy name out of the sucking mud and any realistic chance at having an heir to carry on the family name both in one fell swoop. Personally, Draco thought it wouldn't do a thing to help them up, but would only drag poor Astoria Greengrass (and the rest of her family, by association) down with him. And, honestly, he'd had enough of doing things he didn't want to. If there was no threat of his family being tortured to death over it hanging over his head, then he wasn't going to do it. He was tired.

But being in France had helped. Nobody there had known very much about the war. They'd heard some chatter, but they didn't seem to be familiar with notorious Death Eater names the way all of wizarding Britain seemed to be, and they treated him just like anybody else. It was a kindness that felt both heartbreakingly relieving and utterly undeserved, but he was selfish enough to greedily seize upon it anyway and simply hope they never found out who he really was.

They hadn't yet, anyway. He still had several friends there whom he kept in touch with, including his mentor, and sometimes he missed it. He had moved back almost two years ago now, and had wondered for a while if he'd made a grave mistake in ever trying to come back, even if Britain had always been his home. He'd wondered if maybe he should have just started over and continued his new life in France for good, where he was respected and well-liked, and happy. And where he'd actually have fucking job prospects.

His mentor had told him he could practically have his pick — perfumeries, apothecaries, hospitals, Beauxbatons, novelty shops — literally any place that could use a Potions Master would be happy to have him. He could even open his own business as a private potioneer and sell a whole range of things the average person either couldn't make, couldn't be bothered to make, or couldn't make very well.

It had been an appealing thought, it really had, but he supposed he had just always thought of France as a temporary study and had a hard time thinking of anywhere other than Britain as his home.

And it had turned out Minerva had apparently wanted him, even if he had been a little too late for that particular school year when he had first come back. Wanted him, or thought he was good enough, or just needed a warm body to fill the spot before Slughorn croaked, whichever. (Like that slippery geezer was leaving this world anytime soon anyway — no, he was a Slytherin to the bone and he'd fight tooth and nail to cling to life.)

Well. Writing letters to his friends back in France wasn't the best distraction — it didn't take overly long, after all, and had a long wait time between missives — but he supposed it was better than nothing if the alternative was moping about missing Harry like a fool.

Maybe he could look into getting a portkey to go visit them. It might be nice to visit again, and that would surely take his attention, wouldn't it?

Feeling in a much brighter mood, Draco got up from his chair by the window, casting about for parchment and something to write with, only for his eyes to fall on the stupid trunk he (they) had been gifted. He scowled at it. Harry had insisted he be the one to take it, since his own trunk already had an undetectable extension charm on it, but the new trunk was now just sitting there in Draco's flat, serving as a rather solidly present reminder of Harry.

He shot it one last glare and turned toward his desk, resolutely forcing his brain onto more acceptable things — like the fucking letters — and threatening it sternly with bodily harm if it continued to venture into such territory.

Completely inadmissible behaviour.

~*~

Harry was keeping himself busy. He felt like he'd almost spent more time at Andromeda's house with her and Teddy than at his own, though he'd also dropped by the Burrow a few times for dinner, and he'd been keeping up with his regular (if very slow, due to the distance) letters to Neville and Luna.

He, Ron, and Hermione had taken to having dinners together every weekend as well, just to catch up and spend some time together. Sometimes they alternated who cooked, or sometimes they just all agreed to get takeaway or go out someplace. It was nice. He hadn't realised quite how much he'd missed them over the school year, and what a poor substitute Floo calls were for actually seeing each other in person.

He'd even had a once-in-a-blue-moon Floo call with Dean and Seamus to check in on how they were holding up. They were apparently doing just fine and had gotten a pet kneazle sometime in the past year and a half since they'd last seen Harry, and they seemed quite pleased with it even though it was the ugliest goddamn thing Harry had ever fucking seen. Not that he said that.

Honestly, he was just impressed they were still managing to put up with each other. He'd thought for sure they'd have gotten sick of each other after being roommates for eight — no, fifteen, if you counted their time at Hogwarts — years, but they seemed just fine.

Well, Harry didn't have to understand it; if it worked, it worked, he supposed. Surely it must get awkward if they ever brought a date home, though? He couldn't recall either of them ever saying anything about a relationship, though, so there must never have been anything serious yet. At least that meant there wasn't any long term third-wheeling, but still.

It probably wasn't any of his business, though; they must have it figured out by now.

But it didn't really matter how busy Harry kept himself — how much he snooped or contacted friends or spent time with family — he still couldn't keep himself from being a little more subdued (perhaps even mopey) when his thoughts strayed in a certain direction. Which was all too often.

It was about Draco, because of course it was about Draco bloody Malfoy. Didn't everything in his life seem to eventually come back to that? All roads lead to Rome, or whatever. Except in this case, Rome turned out to be an obnoxiously funny prick with obnoxiously shiny hair and an obnoxiously surprising amount of talent at what he did. And Harry wanted to see him and he hated that.

What kind of fucking clown latched onto their coworker so hard they couldn't make it through the summer holidays without seeing him? Harry needed to get over the weirdness factor and start socialising with the other teachers, because apparently he had been treating Draco like a fucking security blanket and he hadn't noticed until it was much too late and it was gone.

He tried to keep his mind off of it by focusing all of his attention on Teddy, though. It was a good idea to make the most of the summer whilst he could still actually spend time with him. Harry had already started teaching him to fly a bit, more than just hovering, on the practise broom he'd gotten for him for his birthday a couple years ago, and he thought they were both really enjoying it.

This afternoon, however, Teddy was not in the mood for flying, he wanted to play fantasy, which was mostly an excuse to practise messing with his Metamorphmagus abilities as much as he could without getting scolded for it being inappropriate.

Harry was down for it. They didn't even really have to play, as far as he was concerned. He personally couldn't think of too many instances where Teddy shifting his appearance would really seem inappropriate to him, but he was also painfully aware that he was not Teddy's dad, and this wasn't Andromeda's first rodeo there, so she probably had her reasons. Either way, Teddy was ultimately her jurisdiction, which usually wasn't a problem, because she and Harry tended to agree on most things related to Teddy, but occasionally there were some tough pills to swallow, and Harry had never been particularly skilled at biting his tongue and accepting things he didn't agree with.

He had gotten a lot better at it, though. That was one thing being an Auror had definitely done, and he didn't know whether that was ultimately a good or a bad thing. It served him well in a lot of instances in adult life, but also sometimes...he didn't know. Sometimes he wondered if he shouldn't have given up so much of it so easily, that determination of his to fly in the face of commands when they didn't align with his own philosophies.

Teddy closed his eyes, concentrating hard, and after a few agonising minutes, his face and the backs of his hands had sprouted a short dusting of fur, and his nails had narrowed to little claws, while his nose and mouth morphed into something more remembling the pointed snout of some sort of rodent.

Teddy opened his eyes, apparently done, and looking quite pleased with himself.

It was actually kind of horrifying, this creature he'd arrived at, especially when he smiled and the corners of his lips turned up in the way that something with a snout really shouldn't. It was like some sort of half-human, half-...marmot, or weasel, or ferret or something.

That sparked something in Harry's brain, and after a moment, he suddenly remembered Mad-Eye Moody — or, the fake Mad-Eye, anyway — transfiguring Draco into a ferret in fourth year and bouncing him along under that tree he'd kept taunting Harry from. Truly an iconic moment in Harry's life, and not something that should be forgotten. The only question was whether it was worth it to joyfully obnoxiously remind Draco of that memory or not when he got back to Hogwarts.

Which was fucking ages away still, it felt like.

...Which was exactly why he was not supposed to be thinking about Draco— goddammit. Well, that was two strikes against this monstrosity of a transformation.

Harry bit his lip for a moment as he thought about how to best avoid hurting Teddy's feelings.

"Maybe not that one," he finally said. "But it was very impressive!"

Teddy just gave him a narrow-eyed frown for a few moments, before dramatically sighing out, "Fine."

The sometimes unfortunate thing about Teddy was that he was a smart kid. He wasn't being obedient without question, or even because it was Harry who had told him to, no, Harry knew better by now. Things along these lines had happened more times than Harry would like to admit, and at some point, Teddy had clearly realised that there were certain times when Harry was inevitably going to stutter out a complete cock and bull answer if he was pushed for something, and it would get you no further than if you just gave in in the first place.

But Teddy knew he was full of shite sometimes. And Harry knew he knew. And it was pretty embarrassing to have an eight year old outsmart you a bit at times.

"You be a dragon tamer, then!" Teddy suggested, and closed his eyes, working hard to make his human features finally, thankfully, reappear.

A fucking dragon, though? Really? Could he have picked anything worse? The literal embodiment of Draco's name—

Teddy rolled his eyes exaggeratedly almost as soon as he opened them and groaned at whatever look must have been on Harry's face. "Who doesn't like dragons?!"

"Er—"

Teddy didn't let him finish. "You be the beast, then!" he said, jumping up on the settee and weilding an imaginary sword. "I'll be the mighty prince who slays you!" He looked back at Harry. "For trying the steal the imagination of the villagers."

Well that was rather pointed.

Teddy squeezed his eyes shut again, and slowly his hair turned bright purple. And then, after a long pause, sprung up into bouncy curls all at once. Teddy frowned and Harry could see the muscle in his jaw ticking as he apparently decided against this and his hair softened back down into waves, dropping lower than it had been the first time to frame his face, putting enviable effort into the decision of what type of prince he wanted to be.

The poor kid's teeth weren't gonna survive into adulthood if he kept going like that, and Harry made a mental note to talk to Andromeda about what Teddy might be able to do to make using his abilities less hard on himself.

Teddy bit his lip and made one final change, the purple bleeding into platinum blond instead, before he seemed satisfied and held his imaginary sword out at Harry again.

Oh for fuck's sake. It wasn't exactly the same white-blond as Draco's hair, but it was fucking close enough, especially with the way he'd grown his hair out a bit since they'd been students. And combined with all the other constant reminders, it was bloody well impossible not to be reminded of him.

Harry pressed his lips together tightly. He wasn't going to say why, he was just very tired of fantasy games suddenly.

If he didn't know for a fact that Teddy didn't know a goddamn thing about Draco, he'd almost think the kid was mocking him.

Teddy very obviously picked up on his dislike of the new theme before Harry even had a chance to say anything, and he dramatically threw himself down onto the floor. "You're boring today!"

Harry almost wanted to laugh, except that he felt like he was currently (very inadvisably) digging himself into a hole.

He felt like he saw echoes of Sirius in Teddy sometimes, though, and he wondered if the drama was just a Black thing or...he didn't know. He couldn't help thinking there probably would've been a lot more had Remus survived to influence his child at all, given the way those four — even that fucking rat bastard traitor, as much as Harry hated to think about it — had been so inextricably tangled up together.

"How about we bake some biscuits instead?" he suggested, half bargain and half outright plea. "We can colour the icing and you can frost them however you want. I'll even enchant the designs for you."

Teddy looked up from the floor, his eyes lighting up. "Yeah!" He leapt to his feet and grabbed Harry's hand, pulling him out of the room with him. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Well, Teddy had still forgotten to change his hair back from platinum blond, and Andromeda might be a bit cross with them for making the mess that he knew would be inevitable, but Harry still thought it was worth it if it got them to stop with the fantasy games at least.

He couldn't fucking wait until September.

~*~

With Harry's birthday came the usual deluge of owl deliveries and Floo calls, but one stood out from the rest to him.

He hadn't expected to see Thibaud, Draco's owl, especially not overburdened with a massive parcel, even with the help of another two (presumably postal) owls. And yet here he was, trucking right toward Harry's window, with no apparent intent to stop or divert path.

Harry quickly opened it to let the poor owls into the sitting room, and they dropped down with the parcel on top of the settee.

Harry untied them as hastily as he could, tugging the parcel out from under them to set it on the floor and stretching a hand out to help the owls, which they all looked at rather disdainfully as they righted themselves, ruffling their feathers and settling down. Harry retracted the hand.

"Guess I'll just fuck off, then," he muttered to himself.

The way they just continued sitting there staring warily at him told him he probably should.

"Right."

He went over to shut the window, and then picked up the large, oddly shaped — but surprisingly light for the size — parcel and took it into the kitchen to set on the table. After struggling with the knot a bit, he finally cut the twine with a careful severing charm, and then tore through the paper with his hands.

It seemed the parcel had been oddly shaped because there were several — six different boxes in all different shapes, sizes, and colours — and as Harry spread them out over the table, he noticed they were all slightly cool to the touch, as if they hadn't been out in the summer sun, and the labels affixed to the tops all seemed to indicate that they were from Switzerland or Belgium.

He started taking off the lids one by one to peer inside, releasing a slight cool breeze and a faint sound like a bubble popping as the cooling charm on each box broke.

Chocolates. Every box was full of chocolates: all different shades from white to almost black, some of them with artful drizzles in various colours over them, some with cocoa powder or shredded coconut or a powder Harry couldn't quite identify with an iridescent gold sheen dusting the outside. They were different shapes and sizes, some of them appearing to be chocolate truffles, and others intricate miniature figurines and animals that shifted about restlessly in their allotted tray divots.

A white chocolate elephant raised its trunk in the air and trumpeted, loud compared to its size, but quiet enough that Harry could see how it could have been muffled by the sturdy box had there not been other stasis and containment charms on it, which Harry wasn't entirely certain whether there had been or not.

He was quickly distracted, however, by a dark chocolate phoenix bursting into a quick flash of flame, only to reemerge from the crumbled chocolate ashes as a small chick, which slowly grew in size, chocolate feathers lengthening as the pile of ashes around it shrank and its beak opened to let out a mournful warble before it burst into flame again. In another box, a chocolate time turner spun restlessly, and a chocolate wand with an elaborately carved handle gave off tiny golden sparks.

In yet another box, a tiny plant seedling was sprouting, shooting up into a tall, healthy stalk of flowers, before slowly wilting and collapsing, only to sprout back up again.

This was ridiculous. Utterly absurd. How much must these have costed?!

Admittedly, commissioning Celistina Warbeck wasn't cheap, especially on short notice, and neither were the potions ingredients he'd gotten Draco for his actual present, which were already rare and expensive to begin with, and were also in shortage everywhere near them — hence Draco nearly giving himself a goddamn nosebleed stressing about them not coming in on time for the exams.

Harry had figured everywhere couldn't possibly be out, though, and had popped out to the Ministry that Saturday and requested an urgent portkey to the first place his finger had landed on the map when they'd asked where he wanted to go. He was only in Taiwan for two hours, but they did have what he needed, and pointing at things did the trick just fine. The shop owners had seemed thankful for the business despite the language barrier since he'd gotten so much, as he hadn't had any idea how much Draco had needed, so he didn't think it was a bad decision.

But his first thing had been funny, and the second thing had been practical. This was just lavish.

Despite that, Harry reached for one of the truffles, because they did look rather good. It was covered in coconut and drizzled in caramel, and he thought surely he could disparage Draco's lavishness while still enjoying one of them. Or a few.

As soon as he bit into it, though, his feet left the floor and he began to levitate about six inches off the ground. Harry looked down and sighed exasperatedly, before stuffing the rest of it into his mouth. He should've known. Ridiculous.

After a minute or so, once his feet had returned firmly to the floor, he started to put the lids back on the boxes. He paused, however, as he reached the last one — the one that had been on the top — and saw that he'd missed something. There was a folded piece of parchment Spellotaped to one side of the lid. He pulled it off and unfolded the note, reading over it.

Harry,

Happy birthday.

I hope you'll duly note that not only am I a better teacher than you, I'm also a better person than you. I didn't even consider humiliating you (unlike someone else).

I hope you enjoy the sweets, and tell Saphronia hello for me. I think I may be a glutton for punishment, since I do miss her trying to steal sausages from my plate in the mornings. I'm so used to getting extra, that now I make too many. Thibaud is much too well-behaved for any of that nonsense.

Humbly and honourably

(and many other adjectives that I'm afraid you just simply can't compete with),

Draco

Harry couldn't help laughing at all the self-aggrandising in Draco's letter, and he quickly went to fetch some parchment, quill, and ink to write back.

Draco,

Sounds like something someone who definitely thought about humiliating me would say.

I'm not sure she knows what on earth I'm saying, but will do. If it's any consolation, she certainly hasn't grown out of the habit, so in a month or so you'll be back to having your breakfast stolen just fine.

Speaking of owls, though, I think you should worry about your own. Well behaved or not, your poor boy is exhausted. I think I'll be keeping him for the time being. (I'll let him vouch for me when he comes back about how much better of a person, pet owner, and teacher I am than you. I should have him able to parry stunning spells by the time he returns — that's just how good my teaching is.)

All of those adjectives but better,

Harry

He waved the parchment to dry as he went up to his room to see if Saphronia was in.

She was, and he gave her a treat and a pat, and then rolled up the parchment and tied it to her leg. "That's for Draco; he says hello, but I suppose he can tell you himself now. He's overworked his own poor bird."

She looked disapprovingly down her beak at him as if to say Thibaud was weak, and Harry gave her head another pat and opened the window. "Go on. You know he'll give you a sausage. Or two. Spoilt."

She gave a small hoot and took off out the window.

Harry closed it behind her and turned back around, walking back downstairs into the sitting room and crossing his arms as he surveyed the three tired owls still resting on his settee.

"Now. What to do about you." He supposed he'd better bring down some owl treats and find something to fill with water for them to make a mess playing around in (and hopefully actually drink from, if they weren't being stubborn). Maybe he could summon a field mouse or three from the yard as a sacrifice.

"This house is an ugly mess anyway," he muttered as he turned toward the kitchen. "What are a few water stains. Kreacher! I have a job for you!"