Chapter 10: Harry

~|Twenty-Five Months After the War|~

How long before disappearing 'to clear his head' became 'running away'?

Harry wasn't sure. He didn't really want to think about it, either. He'd discovered, since the war had ended, that many things were better to avoid contemplating. It was easier. Less painful. Less terrifying, too. Harry had become scared of a lot of things after the war.

He knew some of his friends flinched at loud noises. He knew others couldn't cast a hex without paling for the nostalgia it provoked. Some didn't like flashing lights, couldn't abide fires, cringed at the mention of Hogwarts, or Death Eaters, or Voldemort, even if his name no longer held any power.

But Harry was different. His fears were different. It wasn't the bright flashes, the loud sounds, or the memories that Hogwarts called forth that set a chill in his bones.

It was the thought of the Auror program that hadn't quite clicked. It was the fear of reporters hounding his steps, clamouring for any word he might offer, snatching a picture that he didn't know about until it was printed in the Daily Prophet or some other magazine. It was the pain he still saw on George Weasley's face, that Hermione barely spoke anymore, that Ron threw himself into his Auror role as though he sought to erase Dark magic entirely, and that Harry couldn't do anything about any of it. He couldn't help, and that scared him.

Harry had needed to leave England, to escape, but he wasn't sure if he'd quite accepted that need. It had been two months since he'd left and he still wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. He didn't know if he was ready to return, either. Would he ever would be?

Propping his chin into his hand, Harry stared out the window of the chocolaterie he'd been visiting every day for the past week. The river of cars that descended the street outside was consistent yet silent company, the sound of chugging engines deflected by the thick, expensive glass. He didn't know why he'd picked the chocolaterie. He didn't know what had drawn him to it, no more than he knew why he'd taken a holiday to Australia at all. Hermione's minimal mention of the country from when she'd made her fated trip to retrieve her parents hadn't been particularly tantalising.

Harry didn't know. He didn't have a reason. Just as there was no particular reason for him to have stayed as long as he had, or to travel down from Sydney to Melbourne. Harry didn't… he didn't know anything except…

I don't know if I can go back, he thought, following a particularly bright car as it passed the window. I love England, and I love my friends, but it's all…

After the war, with the Wizarding world still demanding his attention and heroism that he'd never believed he had in the first place, Harry didn't know if love was enough. The question was, if he didn't go back, if he didn't become the Auror his world still expected him to be… what then? What would he become?

A clatter from across the room was what drew his attention from staring at the fading sun outside. Dragging himself from his thoughts, Harry blinked at the young man that was beginning to stack chairs. Was it that time already? Shaking his head, he sat back slightly, sighed, collected himself to rise, and –

"You don't have to leave."

Harry paused. The young man hadn't paused in his stacking, but he was glancing over his shoulder towards Harry nonetheless. He flashed him a smile, wide and white, that stretched across his face amiably. "It's okay. We're packing up a bit early. You're allowed to stay till the last second as usual."

Harry stared. 'As usual'. That was a little embarrassing; Harry had grown to sorely dislike attention over the past few years, so to know that he was still noticed even on the other side of the world, by a complete stranger and Muggle that wouldn't even know of the Wizarding war in Britain, was discomforting.

Ducking his chin, Harry fiddled with the mug before him. "Sorry," he muttered.

"For what?" the man asked, stacking chairs together in a leaning tower.

"For hanging around. Must be annoying when people just don't leave."

The man flashed Harry another grin. He had a good smile. Bright. Harry recognised him vaguely from the past few days. He seemed to be one of the shopfront assistants rather than those working out the back in the kitchens. He was the only one on the floor at that moment, too. "It's nothing. You've just got to know how to subtly suggest that they get out without sounding like a dickhead."

Harry started slightly. Then he laughed, and was almost as surprised for that fact as by the man's words. The man only grinned at him again. "What?"

Dropping his chin again, Harry found himself smiling. "Nothing. I just didn't expect you to say that."

"Just because I work in the customer service industry doesn't mean I'm not a realist," the man said, turning to the nearest table and flipped it upside down with practiced ease to prop atop the one alongside it. "Sure, 'the customer is always right' and all that jazz is the attitude we're supposed to have, but I've worked here for too long to bother. This place attracts people because our chocolate tastes good more than our pretty good manners."

Harry laughed again as the man beamed his picture-perfect smile once more. He leaned against the table before him, folding his arms as he watched him. "You've been working here for a while, then?"

For the life of him, Harry didn't know why he asked. He'd barely spoken to a single person in months but in casual passing. He'd never been a particularly sociable person but for with Ron and Hermione anyway; growing up without friends had always made being surrounded by people a little overwhelming. But even if it was superficially, he found it nice to talk to the man with something more than "Can you direct me to…?' or "I'd like to order a…"

"About six years," the man said, grunting a little as he lifted another table. "If you can believe it. God, that makes me feel old. I planned on finishing up here when I was done with uni last semester, but I guess some things just stick to you. That, and my boss guilt-tripped me into staying."

Harry nodded empathetically. He'd experienced his own wealth of guilt-tripping in the face of the papers and their relentless interviewing. 'You should', 'you must', and 'it would really be a benefit' were arguments that made it a little difficult to turn down such requests. "Fair enough."

"I'll get out of here someday," the man continued. He shuffled across the room, dragging two towers of chairs after him. The floor seemed remarkably wide without the presence of tables and chairs; Harry hadn't realised how big the shop was. "Believe it or not, I've actually got a psych degree."

"Really?" Harry said, eyebrows rising.

"Really. I know, I don't look the type, right?"

Harry didn't reply, even if he did silently agree. He didn't want to pin people with expectations – he'd had enough pinned to himself over the years – but the man looked fairly typical of how Harry imagined many Australians to appear: tall, not big but visibly built beneath the stained apron and slacks of his uniform. His curls and skin were a matching, burnished brown touched just a little by the sun, and he smiled a lot, speaking casually with the slow, easy accent that Harry had grown familiar with over the past months. A psychologist? Not a surfer by trade, if such was a thing? Harry wouldn't have expected that. He silently reprimanded himself for the thought.

"What about yourself, though?" the man asked, pausing in his tidying to lean against the nearest chair-tower and turn towards Harry. "What do you do?"

"Hm." Harry pursed his lips, ducking his chin again. "Good question."

"Taking some time off?"

"I guess you could say that."

"You're a Brit, yeah?" The man continued before Harry could reply. "I always liked pommy accents."

Harry's gaze rose. "Pommy accents?"

The man grinned again. It really was a nice smile. Friendly, maybe a little teasing, but not in a bad way. Harry didn't feel even the barest hint of disgruntlement for it. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "A couple of months."

"A couple of months? That's quite a trip. You been out and about to see much?"

Shrugging again, Harry shook his head. "Not so much. I was up in Sydney before coming down here, but I guess I'm more just…"

"Cruising?" the man offered.

"Yeah."

"Are you staying up at the Rialto, then?"

The Rialto. It took Harry a moment to recall what the man referred to. Then he snorted as he remembered it was the name of the hotel the chocolaterie sat beneath – the towering, impressive, luxurious hotel that would have emptied his bank account in days. It was that hotel, that it reminded him just a little of the older structures in the England he loved, which had drawn him in the first place.

He shook his head. "Hell no. You think I can afford a room up there?" He pointed indicatively to the ceiling.

If possible, the man's smile grew even friendlier. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Good to hear. I thought you might have been a spoilt little rich kid going on a holiday with your parents' money or something. Not that that's a bad thing, but – you know."

Harry shook his head again. Even if it was true regarding his parents' money, he didn't consider himself especially pampered. "Yeah, no, not me."

The man opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a young woman's head appeared from the kitchens. She scanned the room briefly before locking her attention onto the man. "You nearly done, Ollie? Could you help Mitch pack away the freezers out the back? He doesn't know what the hell he's doing." She rolled her eyes.

"He'll learn," the man – Ollie? – replied. "Jeez, Louisa, he's only been working here a week. Cut him some slack."

"He asked me three times today where we keep the raw sugar."

"Okay, he'll learn slowly," Ollie laughed.

Louisa rolled her eyes again before disappearing back into the kitchens. Ollie turned back to Harry a moment later. "The boss calls," he said with a mocking, long-suffering sigh.

"Don't let me keep you, then," Harry said, even if he did feel a touch regretful that his conversation partner – however brief, unexpected, and unasked for he was – would be leaving. He hadn't realised how much he'd wanted to simply talk to someone until that moment.

Ollie didn't leave immediately, however. He regarded Harry for a moment, frowning slightly. "You come here a fair bit," he said, which was the nice way of putting it.

Try every day for the past week, Harry thought self-deprecatingly. And for hours at a time at that. He must think I'm weird, to travel all the way to Australia just to sit in a chocolaterie all day. "Yeah," he said shortly.

"You like chocolate that much?"

Harry smirked. A passing memory of Dementors fleetingly crossed his mind. "Not all that much, actually."

Ollie didn't comment on the fact – that it was probably a little strange, too – except to nod. "You got friends around Melbourne?"

"Not really."

"Got any plans? How long're you staying?"

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if the questions were innocent or bordering on too intrusive. Why did Ollie care? He shrugged his suspicion aside with a little difficulty; Ollie was clearly Muggle, and they were about as far away from England and its Wizarding world as Harry could get. He had no right to think as much of him. Ollie was probably just being friendly.

"I don't know," Harry said honestly.

Ollie nodded again, as though he'd expected the reply. Then he crossed the room and held out a hand to Harry. "I'm Ollie, by the way. Just realised I didn't introduce myself."

Harry hesitated for only a moment before grasping the proffered hand. "Harry," he said.

Ollie flashed another smile. "Nice to meet you, Harry. I've got a proposition for you."

"A proposition?" The suspicion was back again almost before it had left.

Ollie nodded. "You don't seem to have see much of the city. My friends and I are catching up tonight; why don't you come with us?"

Harry stared up to where Ollie stood before him, smiling expectantly. He was still suspicious, yes, but mostly he felt surprised. "Um… why?"

"Why not?"

"You don't know me."

"So?" Ollie waved a hand in the air as though to disregard the thought. "I'll be the most popular person of the night having brought someone knew and interesting to be ogled over."

"I'm not that interesting," Harry muttered, pursing his lips.

Ollie laughed. "Sure you are. But even if not – seriously, why don't you come? We won't be out too late; I'm working the morning shift tomorrow, so I've got to get up early."

Harry stared up at Ollie once more, frowning just a little. Should he? There was no reason that he shouldn't but for his instinctive suspicion and wariness of just about everyone. Where had that instinct arisen from, anyway? He was sure it didn't used to exist. At what point over the last few years had Harry developed it?

He didn't know, but that momentary surprise, the irritation for his wariness, urged him to agree. He nodded. "Alright, then," he said. "Sure."

Ollie grinned widely. "Awesome. I finish up in about twenty; I'll see you then?"

Harry nodded as, to the sound of Louisa's bellowed, "Ollie!" his unexpected new friend turned on his heel and strode towards the kitchen. He stared after him for a long moment before slowly rising and making his way from the chocolaterie.

It was unexpected, but Harry didn't think it was such a bad thing.

Sleep retreated slowly and comfortably. That in itself was strange; Harry wasn't used to waking gradually without his head ringing with the residue of whatever dream had afflicted him. Dreams of the unconscious mind were dangerous things – both the good and the bad.

Blinking his eyes open, Harry stared groggily across the blurred expanse of room before him. For a long moment, Harry could only stare, confused and a little disconcerted but not afraid. Then it all flooded back to him.

Following Ollie to the local pub. The cluster of young men and women that greeted Ollie and then Harry himself with open arms and good humour. The drinks that made Harry's nose fizzle from the carbonation. The greasy dinner that tasted better than anything Harry had eaten in months.

Dancing. Getting lost in a crowd. Laughing with people he barely knew but Ollie introduced him to three times that night. "Tony's solid and all when he's not being a prick," he'd said, and "You've met Sarah, Harry? My fiancé? You've met her, right?". How many times had he shaken hands with those same people that laughed through their inebriation?

Harry was a little drunk himself, though not much from the liquor Ollie all but insisted he partake of. For whatever reason - the holiday fever finally hitting him, the enjoyable company, the fact that he had company at all, or that for a time he actually forgot about what he was running away - it felt good. Harry felt good.

"You want to crash at mine tonight?" Ollie had asked as they staggered from the pub amidst the flock of Ollie's friends.

Maybe Harry shouldn't have agreed to Ollie's offer. Maybe he should have been more cautious, recalled how many times he'd been jumped or assaulted with something not quite respect and adoration in the streets back in London. Harry should have been wary – but he wasn't.

So he'd agreed. He followed after Ollie instead of returning to his own hotel room. He'd collapsed onto the couch in Ollie's apartment with barely a care about intrusiveness, or what he might think the next morning. Harry slept and he was actually content.

Blinking the sleepy film from his eyes, Harry fumbled at the floor alongside the couch for where he hoped he'd discarded his glasses the night before. Shoving them onto his face with clumsy fingers, he grunted, pushing himself upright.

Harry couldn't remember much of the apartment from the previous night. He'd barely been aware enough to stumble through Ollie's door after his drunken new friend and collapse onto the couch with a murmured thanks that Ollie likely didn't hear. Turning his head, Harry absorbed his surroundings for the first time.

A living room. A pale rug of thick weave. A glass coffee table smeared with fingerprints and dotted with coasters that gave it a homely rather than slovenly aura. A hallway punctured one wall, while the other side of the room spread into a modest kitchen and an equally modest dining table cluttered with papers, books, and a discarded mug. Directly behind the couch, a window spread, pooling a tidal wave of cool sunshine into the room.

Harry squinted slightly as he peered over his shoulder. A hand rose to idly scratch his head before flopping back into his lap. He felt… strange. The good kind of strange that followed a hectic night and a long sleep with the absence of a hangover to greet him when he woke. Harry was almost surprised to find that he felt no wariness or awkwardness, either for the fact that he'd let his guard down or that he was sleeping in a friendly stranger's house.

A friendly stranger who was, as far as Harry could tell, absent.

Climbing to his feet, Harry spared a moment to poke his head down the hallway, glancing into a vaguely disordered bedroom and a bathroom of clean lines and discarded towel. Ollie was nowhere to be found, and passing by the table, scratching his head once more, Harry determined why.

A note, barely noticeable amidst the clutter, was written in unfamiliar scrawl: Harry, sorry to take off on you like this. I'm at work until mid-morning. It's only a half shift, so I should be back by about ten-thirty. Make yourself at home if you'd like. Feel free to use the kitchen, cook up a storm, whatever you want. If you need it, I've put the spare key in the pot plant next to the front door. Ollie.

Harry stared at the note. Then he glanced over his shoulder towards the weary pot plant beside the front door, and back to the note. He frowned. Ollie was a little… odd. He'd greeted Harry without prompting, had invited him out for a night to 'show off the glories of our country to you foreign folk' as he'd declared a number of times, and was now giving Harry free run of his apartment. He'd even told him where his key was.

Harry didn't understand. Maybe he was the odd one that he couldn't comprehend such behaviour, but then, who would be so readily trusting? Why would Ollie be so to Harry? Why was he so kind?

Harry didn't know. Still frowning, he placed the note back on the dining table and spun his watch around on his wrist until he could see the face. Nearly nine o'clock. Ollie would be back within two hours, if he kept to schedule.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to the door once more. Should he leave? But then, Ollie hadn't asked him to. He hadn't even seemed like he wanted Harry to go. That was something else Harry didn't understand; how could someone allow an all-but-stranger into their home, let alone encourage them to stay. The idea was utterly conceptually foreign.

But he wouldn't shirk the kindness, for that was what it was. Harry didn't know Ollie outside of what he'd learned of him the previous night, but he liked him, and he was grateful for the unexpected offer his new friend had made. He wouldn't dismiss it by disappearing.

So instead, Harry took himself to the front door and slipped into his shoes. He felt a little worse for wear after sleeping in his jeans and jumper, but it would do. With a final, brief glance around the apartment with its minimal rooms and homey clutter, enough to catalogue for memory, he Apparated with a crack. Why use a key when one had magic, after all?

Ten minutes later and Harry returned. Shopping bags swinging from his fingers, he made his way to the kitchen through the comfortable silence. It could have been presumptuous of him to so assume kitchen rights, but Ollie had said he could. Besides, after all Ollie had done for him, Harry wanted to offer something back.

When Ollie did return, at nearly ten-thirty on the dot, it was to aromatic baking and the hiss of water as Harry scrubbed in the sink permeating the air. Harry didn't hear him enter until he poked his head around the corner of the kitchen's open wall. "What are you cooking that smells like heaven?"

Harry turned and immediately smiled. It was difficult not to; Ollie grinned at him, teeth flashing and eyes bright, and it was infectious. Flicking the tap off, Harry turned, drying his hands on a dishrag. "I hope you don't mind that I used your kitchen," he said.

"Are you kidding?" Ollie stepped into the room. He bent down before the oven, peering through the glass, and inhaled. His eyes closed briefly. "As long as I can eat some of it, you can do what you like. I can't bake to save myself, so this is kind of a big deal. First time this oven's ever been used in years."

Harry's smile widened. "You work in a chocolaterie and you don't bake?"

"Two things," Ollie said, holding up a silencing hand. "One: making chocolate is different to baking."

"Is it?"

"And two," Ollie said, smirking through his words, "yes. That's entirely correct. There's a reason Louisa has me doing the assemblages and serving the customers rather than working out the back."

Harry laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was made even better when Ollie joined in a second later.

His madeira cake, pale golden brown and rising perfectly in its loaf tin, was drawn from the oven barely half an hour later. It wasn't anything particularly profound; Harry had baked it dozens of times when he was a child, when a demand that he 'make dessert, and don't burn a thing' was made of him. The recipe was easy, well liked – or as well liked as the Dursleys ever liked anything of Harry's – and he'd all but perfected it with countless practices. The memory wasn't a particularly fond one, but Harry found himself thankful for the experience when Ollie's appreciation arose.

"Hell, this tastes as good as it smells," Ollie said, all but slumping over his plate as they sat at the dining table. He closed his eyes as he took another mouthful, as though to savour the taste.

Harry shook his head, chuckling. "You're being a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding? You could sell this stuff and people would definitely pay for it." Another bite disappeared with an appreciative groan before Ollie jabbed his fork in Harry's direction. "Fancy sticking around town for a little while and making it for the shop? I think I could get Louisa on board."

"You work with chocolate," Harry reminded him.

"That's a trivial detail, easily overlooked."

"It's not that good," Harry said, taking a bite of his own slice. He couldn't quite suppress the warmth that welled within him, however; he'd been feeling lighter, happier, since he'd met Ollie, and the unexpected night out and just how much fun it had been only intensified that feeling. Harry hadn't realised how down he'd been feeling until he started to feel up again.

Ollie raised an eyebrow as he dangled his fork from his fingers. "'Kay. If you think so. But leave the rest of the cake with me when you eventually go, alright?"

Harry laughed again. "Sure. Consider it a repayment of sorts." He paused, then, "Thanks, by the way."

"For?"

"For putting me up for the night." Harry shrugged. "And for letting me hang out with you and your friends last night. And…" And for talking to me at Haighs chocolates for no reason other than that you're a nice person. Harry didn't say that part, however. For some reason, it felt a little too awkward to do so.

Ollie paused in scooping himself another bite. He smiled, not quite as widely as before but somehow more deeply. "No problem. You looked like you needed it."

Harry blinked. "I did?"

With a nod, Ollie lowered his fork. "Maybe it's just my psych major making me overly analytical, but you seemed like you needed a fun night out. Just to chill, you know?"

Harry regarded his plate so he didn't have to look at Ollie. The lightness didn't quite leave him, but his merriment dimmed just a little. "I guess you could say that."

For a moment, Ollie remained silent. Harry picked at his cake without eating it, lost in thought and a touch of embarrassment. When Ollie continued, Harry couldn't quite raise his eyes to meet his. "Trouble at home?"

Trouble at home. Such simple words. So open to possibilities. Was there trouble at home?

Ollie was probably right: the war still hung over Harry's shoulder, though more than two years had passed since Voldemort's defeat. The newspapers still peppered him every time Harry stepped outside, and it was exhausting. He wasn't as close to his friends as he'd once been, each of them slowly turning into different directions, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

Was there trouble at home? Harry thought there was. Just a little bit.

"You could say that," Harry muttered.

"I figured," Ollie said. "Most people don't take a holiday across the world and spend most of it sitting in a chocolate shop."

"To be fair, it's a pretty nice shop," Harry said with an attempt at humour.

Ollie laughed quietly. "True. But probably not the reason you're spending so much time there."

"Probably."

"Can I help?"

Harry raised his gaze to Ollie's. Ollie confused him. Why was he so nice? Why was he such a good person? Why did he help Harry when most people didn't even see that Harry needed help? What incentive could he have, or was it possible he had no incentive at all? Harry didn't know Ollie particularly well, but he was beginning to suspect that he might be the kind of person that simply helped people.

Harry liked him. Surprisingly, because he'd had true enough real friends in his life that it was a momentous occurrence that he make another. He felt comfortable in his company, and that he'd had fun the previous night and woken on Ollie's couch without fear or even any real concern – that meant something.

"I think you've already helped," Harry found himself saying, then cringed as warmth touched his cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded cheesy."

Ollie chuckled. "Maybe a little bit, but that's okay. A little bit of cheesiness is good. And I'm happy to help." Picking up his fork once more, he scooped up another bite of cake. "You're welcome to stick around here as long as you'd like, you know. Until you sort things out. It'll be cheaper than keeping a room in a hotel."

Harry opened his mouth to deny the offer – for as kind as it was, it felt too much like an intrusion – but he bit his tongue at the last second. "You really mean that?" he asked.

"Sure." Ollie grinned around his fork. "Especially if you make me more cake like this. Fancy moving permanently to Australia? I think I could convince Sarah to let you live with us when we eventually get married if you'll be our cook."

Once, such words might have rubbed Harry the wrong way. He'd been all but a slave to the Dursleys in his childhood, and he'd never taken to cooking afterwards, even if he did find it a comfortingly familiar process. At Ollie's suggestion, however, that he spoke lightly and with real appreciation, Harry didn't think it was such a bad offer.

Still, he shook his head, smiling down at his barely touched cake. "Thanks, but even if I do have a bit of 'trouble at home', I think I'd miss it if I was away for too long."

Ollie hummed around his fork once more. "You love it, huh?"

Is it love? Harry nodded slowly. "I guess I do. I mean, it can be loud, and there are so many people, and those people get in your face which can be horribly annoying –"

"You're really selling it," Ollie laughed.

" – but even so," Harry continued, barely hearing him. "Even if it is a bit of a love-hate relationship… yeah, I guess I do. And I want to go back. Eventually."

Ollie hummed again. "Fair enough. I suppose I can accept that. But you stick around for as long as you like, okay?"

For a long moment, Harry could only stare at Ollie. An amiable grin spreading wider when Harry's own smile touched his lips. He raised a questioning eyebrow and his eyes sparkled just a little bit. Harry didn't understand him; not why he was helping him, nor being so kind or accommodating. But he appreciated it. He was more grateful that he thought himself capable of expressing.

"Thanks, Ollie," Harry finally said, and he meant it with everything he had. "I might just take you up on the offer. If nothing else, you've made this trip worthwhile."

Ollie only popped another bite of cake in his mouth and groaned again with far louder that Harry thought warranted. "You can repay me by giving me this recipe. I swear to God, I'm never going to eat anything else in my life."

The warmth flooding through Harry blossomed into something that tingled in his fingers and toes. He didn't really know all that many recipes to bake, and he'd never considered himself adept at cooking or baking at all. It had been a chore. A necessity.

But Ollie's words… It felt nice to be appreciated for something he'd made, something that he'd done because he wanted to do it rather than because he had no other choice. Maybe it was foolish of him to compare defeating a Dark wizard to baking a cake, but the thought somehow stuck.

Harry loved England. He loved his friends, and he already missed those he'd left behind. But with the weight that had been loaded upon his shoulders after the war and seemed to drag increasingly over the years, he needed to escape it. Just a little something felt lost – blurred, skewed – with that dragging weight.

But this. The cake. His unexpected friend. The smile that still settled upon Ollie's face as he continued to chatter in compliments – he liked this. This wasn't heavy at all.

I might be onto something here, Harry thought as he turned back to his own cake. It was a revelation arisen from an unexpected direction and one he didn't quite know what to do with, but for the moment, he felt almost peaceful.

~Written for The Houses Competition, Round 7~

House: Ravenclaw

Category: Themed - Love and/or Love Lost

Prompt: Baking

Word Count: 4995