If You've Had Enough, Say When
The bistro they sat in was crowded with the lunch rush, but Malfoy seemed to have a reserved table because they were seated almost the moment they arrived. The music that played softly over the customers was folk Italian and it grated on the speakers, the sound crackling and hiccuping as the melody broke through at irregular intervals. The seats were soft leather, golden studs holding the seams together, and gorgeous cherry wood acting as a frame. The tables seemed to be made of the same cherry wood and they were smooth to the touch, freshly sanded and varnished, gleaming in the afternoon light with a reddish hue. The paintings on the wall were modern, abstract pieces, little to do with reality. The smell, however, was the crowning jewel. A restaurant could always be gauged by its scent.
Bread. Harry recognized the scent well. It was the smell of freshly baked bread. The warm, heady scent hung in the air, wheat and yeast and something infinitely sweeter than all that. Just below was the bitter scent of coffee, strong and precise, awakening the senses with its aroma alone. Then meat, cooked and seasoned with rosemary and something strong (paprika, perhaps) rich and succulent, laden with a delicious promise. Lastly, from what Harry could smell, was vanilla; sweet and domineering, tantalizing, so heavy of a scent that it could almost be tasted on the air; thick like honey, and insistent with its sugariness. Harry took all these in as they sat and lost himself in it, momentarily ignoring Malfoy and the world around him.
"So, Potter," Malfoy's drawl broke through Harry's daze and he snapped back to reality unpleasantly, like a splash of cold water on sleep-warm flesh. "Is this up to your standards?"
"I'll need to try the food first," Harry answered, coming to himself more and more until all the smells he had so carefully separated, melted together into one insignificant mass under Harry's nose. The restaurant lost its cynosure and Harry refocused his frayed senses on Malfoy, hoping that the blonde did not expect him to be a conversationalist for this particular lunch.
Apparently not; they sat in an awkward silence, patiently waiting for their orders to be taken. Harry already felt exhausted and they could not have been sitting there for more than ten minutes. Any words that Harry could think to exchange lead to dangerous territory. If he mentioned school, that was a past that neither man wanted to relive (least of all, together.) If he mentioned work, Malfoy would surely bring up Ron (who was, so ironically, his Auror counterpart) and Harry certainly did not want to talk about that. God forbid he bring up Snape; when it came to that, Harry had absolutely nothing to say to the other man. That went beyond dangerous territory, that was the minefield and it would be suicide to try and walk through it. So he simmered in his silence and let Malfoy start the conversation instead.
"The wedding is in September," Malfoy finally said, and leave it to him to drop Harry right in the center of the minefield. "I know that it may seem like we did this on purpose but we had no idea you owned the shop, Potter. But, of course, 'the best bakery in Wizarding London' would be owned by you, wouldn't it?"
"Hey-" Harry began to protest, but was cut off almost immediately.
"Shut it, Potter," Malfoy snapped quickly. "I didn't come here to argue. It wasn't only your bad luck that screwed us on this one. What I need to know is if you'll agree to make the cake or not. Just say yes or no. If you say yes, great, we'll be getting somewhere. If you say no, we can finish lunch and Severus and I won't bother you again."
The offer sounded sincere but Harry saw it for what it was, what it had always been, a challenge. If he said yes, he was willingly condemning himself to spending prolonged amounts of time with Malfoy and Snape. If he said no, he was admitting that he was too weak to face his past. Malfoy, ever the Slytherin, had trapped him. Perhaps it was because Harry was too proud for his own good or maybe it was because he was living out some long-forgotten fantasy of his; whatever the reason, Harry finally said, "Fine, I'll make your cake, Malfoy." It was a statement, but the uncertainty of Harry's voice was missed by neither man.
"Splendid," Malfoy said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.
Before the silence could descend once again, a waiter appeared. Mercifully, their orders were brought out to them speedily and they had little chance to exchange words again during the lunch. It ended quickly once the food was in front them. Both of them eagerly devoured their dishes and kept their eyes pointedly averted from the other's gaze. Malfoy payed, but not without a little protest on Harry's part. It was out of courtesy that Harry argued the check, though. Truthfully, he just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.
Back at the shop, Harry felt as if a giant weight was lifted from his chest and he definitely breathed a little easier. He ignored his customers as he walked back in the kitchen. He had left Malfoy at the apparition point in his hurry to return home. Now there, he took a moment to understand the weight of what had just occurred. Harry had willingly agreed to make a cake for the to-be Snapes. The pluralization of that name shook something in Harry that he steadfastly ignored in favor of cleaning the ovens in the kitchen.
He scraped down every surface in his effort to distract himself from considering all of the repercussions of his decision. He wiped down the countertops and scraped the grease from the frier. He scrubbed the floors until his fingers were numb and the only thought in his mind was, 'what the hell is that yellow spot?' He cleaned until his knuckles were bloody and if he was scrubbing some tears into the soapy water on the floor, no one was around to call him out on it. He disinfected until his arms shook with tiredness and his legs ached with exhaustion. And when it was over, when every surface was gleamingly spotless, he felt no better than when he entered the shop hours previous.
"Harry?" The familiar voice rang out from the stairs that lead up to his flat. Jesse, Harry's brain supplied.
"In here!" Harry rubbed his hand over his throat. His voice was raw from disuse.
"There you are," Jesse sighed heavily as he entered the kitchen. "I haven't seen you all day!"
The younger man's face distorted in Harry's eyes. Harry felt as if years had passed since he last spoke to his younger lover instead of a few short hours. It felt as if so much had changed. Realistically, Harry knew that nothing had. Things were the same as always. But he was on shaky legs, unsure of where he was or where he was going. Yesterday felt like a pleasant dream and Harry was drifting away from it. He felt himself slipping through the cracks, away from Jesse and all his comforts as his past caught up with him and he was thrust into a battle of wills that he never intended on fighting.
"Yeah, it's been a long one," Harry muttered. He felt far away as Jesse regaled him with an amusing story of some customers that dropped by earlier that day.
His head felt fuzzy as a familiar pair of lips found his and he let himself be hugged and kissed. He let Jesse smile and whisper sweet things in his ear and he let himself smile and respond. But he was so very far away. He wondered if Snape was with Malfoy at that moment. Maybe they were discussing lunch or maybe they were conspiring against Harry. He wondered, after days of forcing himself not to, about the proposal. Did Snape get down on one knee? Did Malfoy cry? Did they sit with each other all night and whisper to each other about the future like-like Harry and Severus used to do? Did they make love? If so, did Snape top? Did he hold Malfoy like he used to-maybe it was best to stop wondering.
They closed the shop after the last of the lunch customers left. Jesse made an attempt to drag Harry up to the loft to laze around for the rest of the day but Harry politely refused. He excused himself, leaving the shop to get some fresh air, telling Jesse he was going to take a walk and that he needed to be alone.
He walked all the way to the other side of town, never slowing down and never lifting his eyes from the ground. He walked fast, mind blank and heart numb. Before he knew it, he was in the graveyard, just outside the old church. He rarely ever came to his part of town. It was called Old Town and it lay just outside the plaza. He looked at the old houses, eyes finally landing on the remains of his family home. He rarely ever strayed this far outside of his comfort zone. Memories of his seventh year plowed into him. He held his breath, nostalgia bringing a deep ache to his heart.
He sought out his parent's headstones. The marble slabs looked the same as the last time he saw them. He had not come back once since he and Hermione had visited five years previous. But he noticed a fresh wreath of flowers leaning against them, much like the one Hermione had conjured all those years ago. A swell of affection burst in his chest for his best friend. Simultaneously, a stab of guilt hit him as he realized Hermione had been visiting the headstones for...however long, now. He gave a silent apology to his parent's graves and was suddenly regretful that he had not kept the resurrection stone. He thought of it as he read the engravings on the headstones. If only to see them one more time, he thought solemnly. Maybe, then, he would not feel so lost.
He turned away from the graves toward the memorial. The obelisk gave way to the true form underneath. There, in carved marble, sat his parents and himself as a baby. He ached more deeply. He walked to the statue, sitting at the bench across from it. He took his time to visually outline the features of his stone parents. His heart felt heavy and a sizable lump formed in his throat.
"It does not do to dwell on the past, Harry." Harry jumped and he gasped, turning around. It could not be...he turned to face the familiar voice to see Marcus standing there, leaning on a cane, smiling benevolently. Harry's heart slowed and he took a deep breath.
"Marcus," Harry greeted. "You startled me. I thought...I thought you were someone else."
"Yes," the old man replied, taking a seat next to Harry on the bench. "Well, us old folk are all pretty much the same."
Harry huffed out a laugh at that. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment.
"Thinking about the war, m'boy?" The old man finally asked.
It took a long time for Harry to answer, but he finally said, "Yes." He took a breath before he opened his mouth again, sharing his soul with the familiar man. "Sometimes...I miss it. You know? Not the deaths or the violence or anything. But the feeling of...doing something that was worth it; the feeling of doing something important. Most days, it's a relief not to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. But sometimes I miss it...sometimes that weight wasn't always a bad thing, you know? And now...the life I live, it's so simple and plain and everything I've ever wanted but...Just some days, I can't believe it's actually over. I can't believe that this is my life now."
"Mmm, the past is a funny thing," Marcus responded after a beat of quiet. "Sometimes we don't realize what it is that we have until it is gone. I feel, Harry, that you are not alone. We all miss it, in our way. As you said, it was not always a bad thing. Sometimes, in great times of despair and loss we find the most beautiful sense of clarity. Sometimes in the midst of war, we find purity. The world has a way of righting itself in the darkness. I think you'll find, as you age, the most blessed moments are the ones that left you completely shattered."
A long silence followed his words. Harry contemplated Marcus and his wisdom.
"Have you ever been in love, Marcus?" Harry finally asked.
"Once. In my youth, I was a fool's fool. I was utterly besotted with a young woman a few years older than me and spent many days trying to woo her. But she was a stubborn one. She ignored me at every turn and shot down all my advances. She left me heartbroken so that I felt I would never be whole again."
"So what did you do?"
"What else? I married her. She was the love of my life from the day I met her to the day she died and still, to this day, I find that I love her more and more with each passing hour."
"Oh," Harry uttered sadly. "I'm sorry. When did she pass?"
"Fifteen years ago next April."
There was another long silence between them.
"How many girls did you date before you met the one?"
"It doesn't matter how many I dated before, I never dated anyone after."
Another silence.
"Does it work out? You know, in the end, does it all fall into place? When you really love someone?"
"Harry, when you truly love someone, it will always work out."
"Really? How can that be? What if the one you love doesn't love you back?"
"When you come to understand what love is, you'll know the answer to that question."
Harry looked out onto the graveyard. The sun was setting on the horizon and Harry knew he should get back before Hermione or Jesse began to worry. He looked to the old man beside him. He was staring out in front him, eyes glazed over with something indecipherable. Harry smiled very slightly.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Marcus, early morning."
"Wouldn't miss it," the old man said kindly. Harry stood from his place on the bench. Without looking back, he walked back to the plaza.
Without looking back, he walked home