Blaise loved nothing more than the controlled chaos of a kitchen on Friday night.

Date night.

He opened Zucchero a couple years after the war because everything was still being rebuilt. Buildings, businesses, lives. There was no escape from it; the only places open for a good time were the pubs and, later on, an exclusive sex club. Nowhere to take your boyfriend out for a nice dinner.

Not that Blaise would know.

He'd opened up a restaurant to put some life back into a world that was doing little more than going through the motions. Traditional Italian cuisine, primarily from Modena. Whatever he wanted to try, and wherever Blaise's heart took him. Food was the only love he had that never failed.

That Friday night, just a couple months after his twenty-fifth birthday, Blaise stood in the middle of the kitchen and took it all in. The sweat building on the brows of the cooks at the grill station. The methodical way the garde manager, Knighten, prepared appetizers and salads at the other end, across from the dessert station. The pastry chef, Pallante, had only just begun to plate the first dessert of the evening. The rapid-fire process of chefs approving plates, placing them on the kitchen line, only for waitstaff to take them off moments later before hustling out the door. There were many more pieces, each of which had been finely tuned with the best-trained staff in Europe.

Just a bit after eight, a cameriere rushed through the door holding a full bowl of salad. His eyes were wide and he seemed flustered as he half-ran up to the garde manager. Blaise walked over as they whispered words they clearly didn't want him to hear.

"Is there a problem?"

The cameriere looked like he may well faint from nerves; the hand holding the salad bowl trembled. Blaise gently took it from his grasp and repeated,

"Do we have a problem?"

"Evidently," Knighten said, "one of our patrons has sent back a salad."

Blaise couldn't keep the surprise off his face.

"Someone returned a plate?"

The cameriere nodded. Blaise insisted,

"No one has ever returned a plate. Why would they return a salad?"

"He was quite insistent, sir. Said he'd rather just have the cuttlefish."

"If he wants to pay for the grilled cuttlefish, he can have the cuttlefish."

"No, sir. He wants the cuttlefish in place of the salad."

Knighten laughed and shook his head.

"Boss, do you want me to take care of this?"

"No." Blaise felt anger blooming in his chest; who the bloody hell had the nerve to demand a replacement dish? He took a deep, slow breath in. "No, this is my restaurant and I will care for the problem."

"Yessir, um, what do I do?" asked the cameriere.

"You continue serving the tables after taking me to the unfortunate ponce who made the mistake of returning a plate. Once I am finished with our cliente avaro, continue their service. Keep this simple."

"Yessir."

Blaise grabbed a menu then followed the cameriere out through the small maze of tables until he stopped at a table for two. The man on the right seemed incredibly embarrassed but tried desperately not to show it. He'd placed his elbows on the table and was looking down at his own empty plate. The man on the left, however, reminded Blaise of so many of the men his mother conned and later murdered: entitled and self-important, with no taste in food. At that moment, Blaise thought his mother may not have seen life quite as backward as he previously believed. The man who returned the salad looked up at Blaise with an expectant expression. He asked,

"Who are you?"

With every indication he knew exactly who Blaise was. Hell, everyone who ever touched Witch Weekly knew who he was. Blaise offered him a sardonic smile and replied,

"My name is Blaise Zabini. I own this establishment."

The nameless arsehole with poor taste glanced over to his date, as though the other man should be impressed he'd managed to wrangle an audience with the owner. Blaise spared the man's date a quick glance. Not bad-looking, with a scruffy beard and kind eyes. He was familiar, somehow, but Blaise didn't have time to consider why. The man's far less appealing date said,

"Good to meet you, then."

"Yes," Blaise offered, "it must be. I want to run through exactly what you ordered so we can establish where my kitchen went wrong."

"Brilliant."

"Indeed. See, I set the menu." Blaise produced a physical copy of the menu and placed it on the table. "Please show me what you ordered."

"This." The man pointed to a menu item and read in choppy Italian, "Insalata di Granchio."

"Right. And this," Blaise placed the plate in front of the man, "is insalata di granchio. What seems to be the problem?"

The man replied, "It tastes like crab."

"Yes." Blaise nodded. "Good."

"I don't like crab."

Blaise blinked. He blinked again. He pressed his lips together and counted backward from five, trying desperately not to think about putting a steak knife through this man's eye. Blaise picked up the menu and handed it to the guest's date.

"Will you please read the description aloud for me?"

The man's cheeks flushed pink and he shook his head, still unwilling to make eye contact.

"I don't think I want to be in the middle of this."

"Quite right, I can handle myself." Blaise turned his attention to the entitled guest and recited from memory, "'Crab claw meat on a bed of finely shredded iceberg lettuce with tomato and cucumber and orange segments, served with cocktail sauce and lemon.' You ordered a crab salad as a first course, knowing you do not like crab?"

"I thought I might like your crab."

"Flattered," deadpanned Blaise.

"But I didn't."

"And you want another course substituted without compensation because you ordered something you knew you wouldn't like."

The man rephrased it to, "Something I knew I might not like."

Blaise huffed, "You sat right here in this chair across from your handsome date and ordered a crab salad. My chef prepared it exactly as you ordered. You took four bites then summoned my waitstaff to take it back to my chef, who prepared it exactly as you ordered, because you have a blanket dislike of the primary ingredient."

The man paused for a moment then confirmed, "Yes."

Blaise turned to the man's date and asked, "How do you feel being out with a man who does not pay?"

"Well," the man's quiet-mannered date paused to take a deep breath and finally look up, "I like people who follow through on what they say they will do."

"Precisely." Blaise turned to the guest, whose entire face had gone bright red, and said, "So either you pay for the insalata di granchio, or …"

Oh.

Blaise looked at the man's date who was trying not to squirm, looking as if he'd rather be in hell than at this table. He wore a smart blazer and had finished what appeared to have been the cuttlefish starter.

Oh.

Now there's an idea.

"Or what?" The man repeated, pulling Blaise from his thoughts. "I pay for the salad or what?"

"If you leave right now, I won't charge you anything."

"Fine." He stood up and nodded to his date. "Dean, let's go."

"Apologies," replied Blaise, "but your date stays."

"Sorry?"

"I will give you the meal if you leave, but only on the condition your date stays here."

The guest looked from Blaise, to his date, then back to Blaise. He shrugged.

"Fine."

The guest was out the door faster than Blaise would've believed possible. Blaise turned to face the man's date, whose teeth were clenched together.

"Did I just get dumped for a salad?"

Blaise sat in the vacant chair and grinned.

"If it's any consolation, I make a damn good salad. First date?"

The man's face fell and he ran one hand through his hair before sinking backward into the chair. He was decent-looking, with eyes that had seen too much. Then again, they all had seen things no child should witness. And this man was so familiar, they must've gone to school together. Blaise cursed the dim lighting of his restaurant because if he could just see—

"Yeah. I haven't dated in well over a year and he convinced me to come out, promised I would have a good time. We'd eat dinner, have a nice conversation, and ease me back into things."

"Well," Blaise replied, "I am always good for food and conversation."

"Aren't you busy?"

"With you, yes."

The man blushed.

"Dean," he replied. "My name is Dean."

OH!

Only then did Blaise recognize him, and his heart dropped straight down into his stomach.

"Dean Thomas."

"Surprised you remember; we were in the same class at Hogwarts. Obviously, I know who you are since you're, well … you." Dean blushed a bit. "You're in nearly every issue of Wizards Quarterly and gorgeous as hell. Of course I know who you are."

Gorgeous as hell. So Blaise had a shot, then? Suddenly, he was sixteen again, hoping and praying Dean would so much as notice him. Talk to him. Ask to borrow a quill in Potions. Anything. Blaise played it cool, though his stomach was tying itself in knots. He laughed and said,

"God, you must remember my hair from Fourth Year. I should probably hide in the kitchens to avoid the shame."

"You can stay awhile," Dean replied, "if you like."

Blaise smiled and agreed, "I would like that."

"Do you remember me from school?"

Blaise felt his own cheeks heat up as one particular memory resurfaced.

"The day after the Yule Ball, I spent much of the day helping in the kitchens. On my way back, I spotted you at the base of one of the massive Christmas trees. You, Potter, Weasley, Finnegan, and Longbottom, I believe, sitting together. Weasley said something you must've thought was funny and you laughed so hard I heard it halfway across the room. You threw your head back and your hair caught in one of the branches, which only made you laugh harder. I had a massive crush on you from then on. I've never forgotten your smile."

Dean's mouth fell open a bit.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course. Only, you never seemed to be interested in boys."

"I wasn't. I didn't realize until I was twenty."

"Oh." Blaise nodded. "Well—"

"Boss!"

Blaise looked up as one of the waitstaff stopped by the table. She looked from Dean, to Blaise, to Dean … and then the recognition dawned in her eyes. She turned to Blaise and asked,

"Is everything alright?"

"Perfect." Blaise grinned. "Keep serving the table as you would."

The cameriere was off with a quick nod and Blaise returned his attention to Dean, knowing full well she was about to tell the entire waitstaff Blaise had stolen a customer's date.

"May I ask why it took so long for you to figure it out?"

"The Muggle world doesn't consider it to be proper, so it never occurred to me. Then one night, Seamus and I got drunk, we ended up back at my flat … I woke up and realized I've been gay the entire time."

Blaise frowned.

"Seamus Finnegan? I remember him being everywhere. Mostly explosions and suits of armor crashing to the ground. He was memorably loud, I suppose."

"Yes," Dean scrunched his nose for a moment, as if an unpleasant memory had just resurfaced. "And every mess needs its cleanup crew doesn't it?"

"Is that what you were?"

"Mostly, it seemed. When you date someone like that, you become beholden to their personality. He was my first boyfriend; my only relationship, really, so I didn't realize how much of myself I lost. I allowed it to last longer than it should have."

"How long were you together?"

"Three years, perhaps close to four?"

"Is that why you stopped dating?" asked Blaise. "Because it ended?"

Dean nodded.

"That first night we fumbled over ourselves. It was all hands and really wet snogging, nothing I care to remember. All my real firsts were with Seamus and now I remember why. Because when I go out with anyone else, I get dumped for a salad."

Blaise smiled and nodded to the menu on the table.

"It's a great salad. Pick anything on the menu and I promise it will be better than the sex you missed out on with your first date. Order one of everything, if you like."

"My first date?" asked Dean. "Will there be a second?"

Blaise insisted, "I am your second."

Dean, shocked, sputtered out, "You wouldn't need to bribe me to date you. I would absolutely go on a date with you."

Blaise leaned forward and asked, "Then may I buy you dinner?"

"Does it count as buying dinner if you own the restaurant?"

"Fair." Blaise grabbed one of the unused forks and took a bite of the insalata di granchio. "What if I make you dinner?"

Dean spun his water glass around with the pads of his fingers. He sighed softly.

"You don't need to work this hard to impress me."

"Dean Thomas, I'm not trying to impress you. I am trying to feed you."

"Why?"

"Because a man like you deserves to be fed fully and fucked properly." Blaise leaned forward and lowered his voice to say, "Any half-decent man does the first before asking the second."

Dean blushed, but caught Blaise's gaze and didn't let go. He asked,

"Are you better at cooking, or are you better at sex?"

Blaise laughed.

"How about you try both, then tell me?"

"Judging by your cuttlefish, I'd guess food." Dean grinned and said, "I do hope you prove me wrong."

Blaise shook his head, stunned that Dean Thomas, of all people, was propositioning him. Someone so lighthearted, full of humour and kindness. He teased,

"And you've only had the starter. I can tell you more with a meal that I make in a half hour, than I could if I sit here talking to you until the restaurant closes."

"Then I look forward to it."

Blaise grinned. He couldn't help himself. It was Dean. Dean. God, those tight curls and that infectious smile … Blaise stood up and said,

"I will make you one promise, Dean Thomas."

"Hmm?" he asked. "What's that?"

"No more crab."

Dean smiled so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners when he agreed, "No crab."

Blaise gently squeezed Dean's shoulder as he walked past on his way to the kitchen. He kept it together, played it cool until the kitchen doors swung shut behind him. He grabbed an apron and walked right into the chaos, shouting at his staff.

"Oi! The order for table seventeen! Cancel it!"

Knighten groaned.

"Boss, I just got started on the—"

"I am making the meal."

"Whoa," Knighten asked, "special guest?"

"The bastard who sent the salad back?"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"He was here on a date with Dean Thomas. He is gone but Dean is still at the table. I've had a crush on him since I was fifteen, and tonight I have a shot. Nobody touches his meal but me."

"I know the sort of magic you can make on a plate, Blaise." Knighten grinned. "He'll be down on one knee before dessert."

Blaise was blushing again, trying not to hope for something more than a meal together. God, what he would give for Dean to come home with him. Blaise tied the apron around himself then shouted,

"Do we have eel?!"

He went to work preparing a smoked eel risotto for a first course. Once that dish was well underway, he poured a bit of oil in a pan and began browning a salted pigeon breast. He watched as the squab skin began to crackle and the duck fat rendered out. Blaise tilted the pan down to scoop the fat onto a spoon then pour it over the bird almost like a roux. He checked on the eel and it was cooking nicely. Twenty minutes in, he shouted to Pallante,

"Will you have someone take a glass of prosecco to table seventeen?! I don't want Dean to think I've forgotten about him."

Fifteen minutes later, Blaise toweled off the bowl for the first course and smiled. He placed the browned squab into a baking pan then made room in the two hundred degree oven. He hadn't rushed the risotto and sampled some of the eel to ensure it was tender. After a daylong marinade, it tasted exactly like Blaise's childhood. He walked toward the doors and took a deep breath, then walked the plate through the aisles over to table seventeen.

Blaise placed the dish in front of Dean and slid into the chair across from him. Dean lifted the half-finished glass of prosecco and said,

"Thanks for this."

"I wanted you to know I hadn't forgotten you."

Dean looked down at the table, a little shy. He ran a hand over his hair and wondered,

"What is this?"

Blaise asked, "Do you trust me enough to try it before I tell you?"

"Yes."

Dean didn't hesitate. He took the first bite and Blaise watched his expression change as he chewed. It was a gradual progression from apprehension, to confusion, that finished on delight. He went back in for a second bite and Blaise felt his heart swell just a little bit.

"This," Dean insisted, "is amazing. The meat is sweet, almost. I've never had anything like it."

"Risotto is always a favorite," Blaise revealed, "but I grew up in Modena. Emilia-Romagna has a tradition of marinating eels, so this is the dish I make myself when I'm missing home."

Dean's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.

"This is eel?"

Blaise nodded. Dean shook his head, amazed.

"It's delicious. It tastes like I should be eating this curled up on a chair, staring out my window at the Italian countryside."

"Exactly. As I said; it's home. Where is home for you?"

"Right now I have a flat in Helga's Kitchen, but my family's in East London."

Dean continued to devour the risotto, so Blaise asked, "Will you tell me about them?"

"Sure." Dean shrugged. "There's my mum, and I have seven half-sisters. Ava's the oldest, she's turning seventeen soon. Zara's the youngest at nine."

"Do you see them often?"

"As often as I can. You aren't curious about my dad?"

"It's a first date, you tell me what you want to tell me."

Dean picked up his prosecco and downed it in one go. He placed the glass on the table and said,

"I'll need another one of those, then. My dad died when I was a year old. My stepfather and I don't get on."

"Why not?"

"He hates magic, gay men, and knowing my mum loved someone else before him."

"Do you have other family?"

"Sure," Dean shrugged, "loads. Ginny is more than family; she's my confidant. We broke up back in sixth year because neither of us was really enjoying it the way we should've been, for a rather obvious reason. She was there for me when I finally figured it out years later. She and Harry are amazing, and I adore their son. Ron's family in a bit more of a distant way. I love Hermione and her parents, and nearly everyone in our House year is still in my life."

"What of Seamus Finnegan?"

Dean looked away, disappointed.

"I don't know how to answer that."

"You don't have to."

"How do you let go of someone who was your closest friend for fourteen years? I've lived more of my life with him than without him. He will always be in my life, part of who I am. I think we're … friends, now?" Dean winced. "I suppose we're amicable when we meet up with friends. It was a difficult break because we're so close and we knew it was over, but it broke my heart to leave him anyway."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Draco and I had the opposite experience." Blaise grabbed a fork and stole some risotto. He watched Dean's expression shift from heartache to amusement to curiosity. Dean Thomas was refreshingly easy to read. "He has been my best friend from the time I was seven. I remember snogging him the first time a couple years ago because it felt like the right thing to do. The only thing to do. We had to give it a try because we cared for each other, but he never loved me. There is so much going wrong inside of him, Draco needs to care for himself before he can properly love someone else."

"Did you ever resent him for it?"

"No. He was always open with me about how he felt, and what he didn't feel. We had a happy relationship; our year together was probably the best year of my life. I loved going out with him, shagging him, and being with my best friend in a new, deeper way. Not competing against Theo for his time. It ended because, like you and Ginny, neither of us enjoyed it the way we should. Now Theo's pushed him together with Astoria Greengrass and, well, my opinion on it doesn't matter much."

"Do you not like her?"

"She is my friend, but I know Draco better than anyone. As I said, he isn't caring for himself the way he should."

"Are you?" asked Dean.

"Yes, but I also need to care for your second course."

"If it's half as good as this, I don't know if I'll have room for dessert."

Blaise leaned back in his chair and gently nudged Dean's ankle with the toe of his shoe. He smiled softly and watched Dean's cheeks turn pink once again as he tried to busy himself with the rest of the risotto. He slowly moved the toe of his shoe back and forth, teasing Dean, happy to know such a simple touch could elicit a positive reaction.

Dean had taken off his jacket to reveal a simple orange button-down, with the top three buttons undone. He had a black watch on his left wrist, one that looked nice but not so expensive it was a statement. That was everything about Dean, wasn't it? Understated. Blaise glanced at the bit of Dean's chest he could see, and was immediately caught staring. Dean laughed.

"I feel a bit overdressed."

"Why?"

"Because you're wearing an apron."

Blaise looked down and laughed.

"I suppose I am."

"Did you forget?"

"I did." Blaise admitted, "I was so excited to bring you food that I didn't consider anything else."

"I'm flattered." Dean nodded back toward the kitchen and said, "The man I came in with was raving about this place. Said he'd been in a dozen times, yet he couldn't pronounce the salad."

"How did you end up on a date with someone like that?"

"Someone like what?"

"Someone who lies to make themselves seem more important than they are. I would never lie to impress you."

"You wouldn't need to."

"You didn't answer the question."

Dean shrugged and said, "It's not as though men are clamoring over themselves to go out with me. I decided to date again because Seamus and I broke up a year ago, and I believe in love. I want to find it again. That bloke was a friend of a friend. Decent-looking, stable job, and not so short that we're in separate post codes."

Blaise laughed.

"Bit of advice, then. Men like that won't go out with you because they want to date you long-term. They go out with you because you're six-four and they assume you have a massive dick."

Without missing a beat, Dean asked, "Is that why you're here?"

"I'm here because I own the restaurant."

"But why are you at my table?"

"Cazzo!" Blaise half-shouted. He stood up from the table and apologized. "I forgot your second course is still in the oven."

Dean teased, "Now who's avoiding the question?"

Blaise half-ran to the kitchen, sliding past waitstaff and ducking under serving trays. He flew through the kitchen doors and beelined for the oven.

Three …

Two …

One.

Blaise saw the timer and pulled the squab out of the oven just as it went off. He placed it on one of the counters and gently prodded it with a fork. He shouted to Pallante,

"How is my confit?"

"Five more minutes to reduce!"

Blaise began to plate that pigeon dish, and it was the most at-home he'd been in the kitchen in ages. Cooking for Dean Thomas wasn't a challenge so much as an absolute delight. Anyone who began with cuttlefish wasn't afraid of experimentation, and that only made Dean Thomas even more frustratingly perfect. A kind heart and an adventurous stomach were the perfect combination in a man. Blaise paused to glance around the kitchen, noting each part had shifted to accommodate him. Knighten came over and nudged his shoulder.

"Not every day the boss gets his hands dirty."

Blaise paused his plating to ask, "Is it mad to think the love of my life is sitting in my restaurant right now?"

"No." Knighten shrugged. "If he's here, you know he has good taste."

Blaise laughed.

"I recognized him and thought, this is it. One look at him and I felt it."

"Felt what?"

Blaise looked at his hands, still hovering over his partially-deboned squab, unable to find a word. He looked at Knighten and asked,

"Have you ever leaned too far back in a chair? So far backward you believed you were about to fall?"

"Of course. History of Magic." Knighten nodded along as his own memories began to surface. "Every class, every year."

"The moment of adrenaline-fueled fear that makes your heart jump?"

"Yeah."

"That is what I felt when I recognized him."

Knighten patted Blaise on the back and said, "Then I hope you cooked a damn good bird."

"Thank you. Tell Pallante to bring over that glaze when it's done."

Knighten left to maintain the kitchen as Blaise continued to debone the pigeon. It was steady, tedious work. Blaise didn't look up until Pallante crossed the kitchen holding a pan of warm glaze. Blaise grinned and Summoned a small spoon to taste the mixture. The moment it hit his tongue he knew it was right, the sweetness of the caramelized apples was perfectly tempered by the shallots. Blaise nodded and said,

"Perfect. You always do this better than me, so will you pour it on the plate?"

"Of course."

Pallante delicately swirled the glaze from the rim of the plate inward, in a spiral shape. Blaise placed the squab in the center and poured applesauce overtop. He stepped back and asked,

"Is it ridiculous?"

"I would say it's a bit overstated with the apples and understated with the bird."

"Balanced?" asked Blaise.

"Perfectly."

"Perfectly ridiculous. Let's hope he feels the same."

Pallante asked, "What is your plan for dessert?"

"The same thing I make every Friday." Blaise grabbed the plate and walked toward the door before remembering he was still in his apron. He glanced down and grumbled, "I supposed it worked the first time."

He could see the top of Dean's head over everyone else, though he was about as far away from the kitchen as a patron could be. The waitstaff had begun to whisper and watch, anxious to see the dish Blaise brought out next. He made his way around and under and through to table seventeen. Dean looked up at him with a soft smile.

"Have you topped the first course?"

Blaise placed the plate in front of Dean and teased, "I do prefer to top."

Dean shook his head fondly then picked up his cutlery to take that first bite of squab. Blaise sat in the chair across the table and leaned forward, taking in every expression as Dean chewed. He swallowed then asked,

"Could you not look at me like I'm a textbook needing to be studied?"

"Not a textbook, I'm just anxious to hear what you think it is."

"I know what this is. It's pigeon."

"It is." Blaise lowered his voice to say, "If you tell anyone this, I will deny it, but I took this recipe from Sainsbury's Magazine. It's pigeon with cider apple sauce, resting on a confit of apples and shallots. The recipe is brilliant; I modified it a bit, but much of the recipe remains true to the source."

"So you …" Dean tried and failed to choke back a laugh. "You read Sainsbury's Magazine?"

"Do you believe I read sonnets and classic Italian literature in my spare time?"

"No, no, it's just …" Dean breathed deeply, but it was cut short by a laugh he couldn't keep in. "I didn't believe you were the sort to read Muggle literature."

"I read everything about food."

"Even if it's from Muggles?"

"The best recipes come from Muggles." Blaise sipped from his glass of prosecco. "Magic ruins food because cooking, and baking moreso, is entirely about timing. You cannot manipulate the timing of food to cook faster, and may Merlin above bless your soul should you try to bake a decent cake with magic."

Dean was visibly skeptical. He poked a bit at the squab then said,

"I remember you being very proud."

"Of being a wizard? Yes. I have always been proud of who I am. However, I was always an obstacle to be overcome with the men my mother brought into her life. Her solution was to keep me separate. I was something to be placed in a closet until she felt like taking me out again. My primary caregiver was our neighbor, an older Muggle woman who loved to cook. So she taught me alongside my house-elves."

"Here? Or in—"

"Modena. I was seven when my mother met Husband #2, whenI was ripped from everything I knew. My language, my caregiver, my food. That is how I met Draco. He welcomed me into his family in a way no one ever had, and continues to be the linchpin of our family. I spent the next ten years moving between Modena and wherever my mother's new husband lived. Food was the only constant I had, and Muggles do it better than we do."

Dean used his fork to pull off another bit of squab and swirl it around in the glaze. He ate for a few minutes without saying anything, and Blaise didn't feel the need to pry. If Dean had something to say, he would say it. Blaise glanced around the restaurant, noting more than one cameriere glancing their way. Eventually, Dean put his cutlery back on the table.

"This is amazing, though I admit you are not what I expected you to be."

"Oh?" Blaise leaned forward a bit and asked, "What did you expect?"

"Well, I never expected to meet you. Certainly not tonight. But you're different from everything in Wizards Quarterly and Witch Weekly and the other rubbish I read when someone leaves it lying around. Did you know you were in an edition of Gnome and Garden?"

"Yes, they did a feature on my other restaurant's herb garden. It is my favorite magazine; I read every issue. It was nice to talk about my food. Most press is always focused on me, my mother, or my sex life. Which is fine, I am aware why people are so interested."

"That's it, though, I wasn't interested in you. I know who you are, I know you own this place, and I know you offered to fund SPEW if Hermione wanted to start it up again. But you were a face in a magazine, never much else to me."

"Right." Blaise frowned. "I've never heard that before."

"No?" teased Dean.

"No. Everyone is always far more aware of my life than I'd prefer. The question get every time is, 'Did you ever see your mother murder someone?' I always say no."

"Do you want to tell me the truth?"

"She pushed her second husband off the balcony and I saw it happen through the window."

"Oh."

"That is why she sent me back to Modena until she found her third husband."

"I see."

"People usually ask some variation of, 'How many people have you slept with?' As if I keep a list. A few people ask if I am part-Siren, which is a question I will never have answered, even for myself. On the rare occasion I am on a third date, they always make their way 'round to the question, 'If your mother murdered her husbands, do I need to worry about you?'"

Dean shook his head.

"That's ridiculous."

"I understand why they ask." Blaise shrugged. "Before Draco, I'd never been in love. I never understood how it worked, or how to treat someone properly, because I never had an example. The best love I've had in my life was Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy; while they love each other very deeply I would prefer the sort of love where neither of us are accused of war crimes."

"Will you tell me about your family?"

"There isn't much to say. Draco is my best friend, and the person I will always consider family."

"It isn't strange after you were a couple for so long?"

"Not at all. Though it ruined my relationship with Lucius and Narcissa. They once considered me a son, but excommunicated me once they realized Draco and I were seeing each other long-term. I, obviously, cannot produce a Malfoy heir. They told Draco that he needed to 'get his cock out of the Zabini boy's arse.' Which was a rather bold assumption on their part, and an insult I will never forgive."

"You were insulted they implied you were …" Dean frowned and a tiny line appeared between his eyebrows. "I don't understand."

"I don't appreciate them believing I was unworthy of their son. I was only welcome in their family on their terms, not on Draco's. I fucked Draco, Draco fucked me, we were never shy about what we wanted from each other. However, Lucius and Narcissa cannot handle the idea that their precious Pureblood son had someone's dick up his arse." Blaise anxiously cleared his throat, realizing he overshared. "I apologize. I didn't realize I was so bitter about it."

"No, no, it's … fine." Dean nodded and insisted, "It's fine, it helps me understand that relationship better."

"I suppose the best way to say it is that Draco taught me how to love someone properly, while I hope I showed him he was worthy of being loved."

"I see."

"Everyone in our family sort of revolves around him. Myself, Theo Nott, and Pansy Parkinson would be the next layer of sorts. The true counterbalance is Bastien, who cares for those of us on the edges. Makes sure no one ever strays too far. Theo has twins, they're four, with Tracey. I think that was the moment we realized our family has a purpose. We all care for those kids. There are more peripheral members, as well. People we care for who know they can count on us when it matters."

"And who are they?"

"For me? Romilda Vane," Blaise answered, "Roger Davies, Gabrielle Delacour, Gwendoline Hedgeflower, and Felix Rosier. I believe those are the most important people to my life."

"Well Gwen is an architect, Davies is in finance, and Rosier runs a farm. Is it that those are the most important people in your life, or are they the most important people to your business?"

"I—" Blaise stuttered. He shook his head and insisted, "No," but it rang a bit hollow.

"I'm not passing judgement, Blaise. I just want to know about you and the people around you."

"I am my business."

"No, you're not."

"Yes," Blaise said, suddenly defensive, "this is my life. This place, this food, it's—"

"It's a business."

Dean paused to chew, and Blaise could only sit and stare, wondering whether to be angry at Dean for being right, or angry at himself for not realizing it sooner. Dean sipped some water and chose his next words carefully.

"I've now eaten three dishes from your kitchen, two made by your hands, and they have been some of the best food I've ever had."

"Thank you."

"But you could make those dishes in another kitchen, in another restaurant in another country. This business isn't you, it is a reflection of you. Which is great, but I'm sure there is more to you than Zucchero. You are good at more than cooking."

"Yes, I am also good at sex."

Dean laughed.

"What else do you do?"

"I nanny the twins, but I use them to test child-friendly recipes, so I am not certain that counts."

"It does."

Blaise added, "I also love the theatre. My mother would go to performances with a date and leave me toward the back with popcorn."

"So your mum would leave you alone, and you made the best of it?"

"I had to. It's not as if I had anyone to field complaints. By the time I truly bonded with my mother's dalliances, the men were either dead or gone. This," Blaise motioned around to the restaurant, "is what I learned to love."

"Do you want to get married?" Dean asked without preamble. "Eventually, I mean."

Blaise thought about it for a moment. He picked up the water glass and swirled the liquid around, watching the ice bounce off the rim. Blaise nodded.

"I do. If I found someone who made me feel at peace, I would marry them."

"I love how you say that, 'at peace.'" Dean blushed as he stabbed an apple slice with his fork. "This plate brings back memories for me."

"Oh?" Blaise wondered, "Are they good?"

"No." Dean laughed and said, "No, they are not. Pigeon is one of the things I ate most often while I was on the run in Seventh Year. Pigeon and, when we could find them, apples."

"Oh, God." Blaise let his head fall into his hands. "Oh, I fucked up."

"No, I wouldn't say that. It is kind of amazing what you did with this, because you took two things that I hate, and made it into something I want to eat. I look at this, and I want it. I taste this food, and suddenly I am at peace with those painful memories. That is not something anyone else could've done."

Blaise leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. He shook his head.

"That is the best compliment anyone's ever given me."

"Hah," Dean grinned, "I'm sure a food critic somewhere has written poetry for your crab salad. Though I doubt they've learned as much about you as I have."

Still in shock, Blaise admitted, "No one has ever cared to ask."

"I do have one more question for you."

"Oh?"

"What's for dessert?"

Blaise laughed. Every moment with Dean Thomas made him feel right at home, peaceful. He was used to the crackling of air between him and another man before sex, the tension, waiting for everything to snap in the most wonderful way. Dean Thomas made everything feel calm, like the first few rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds after a storm. The air around him was lighter. Blaise took off his apron and stopped a passing cameriere. He offered the apron and asked,

"Will you please take this to the kitchen and bring out the Friday dessert?"

The cameriere nodded and said, "Yessir. Just one?"

Blaise nodded.

"Just one."

The cameriere took the apron along with Dean's plate, then rushed toward the kitchen doors. Blaise returned his attention to Dean Thomas. Dean. Dean, who was chuckling again. Blaise raised his eyebrows and asked,

"What have I done, now?"

"You have desserts for days of the week?"

"No, I have a standard dessert menu Saturday through Thursday. I opened Zucchero because we didn't have anywhere to go for a nice date. I wanted to open a place where people feel romantic. Something about the air makes you want to confess your love for this person. Date nights meant to impress, for me, have always been Friday nights. Therefore, on Fridays, we have a special dessert."

The cameriere returned with one cake and two spoons. Blaise watched as he sat the plate down in the centre of the table, then winked at the cameriere when Dean wasn't looking. Dean stared at the plate and said,

"It's a cake."

"Brilliant."

"It's a chocolate cake."

"I make these every Friday afternoon before we open. This is called a soft heart cake."

"Oh?"

Blaise picked up a spoon and broke the cake open to reveal a chocolate sauce pouring out from the centre. It was surrounded by a strawberry sauce and small sprigs of mint.

"When you finish a meal on a date, the taste of your final plate lingers on your tongue. More than once, I've been with men who fail to realize their breath is terrible. This is my solution: chocolate and mint."

"Look at you Blaise Zabini," Dean teased as he made his first scoop. "Saving relationships with dessert."

Blaise smiled and they ate in silence for a minute. Three scoops in, Dean wondered,

"Did you get this from Sainsbury's as well?"

"This is one of the last dishes my nonnina taught me. She used to make it for her husband on special occasions."

"You said she taught you with your elves?"

"Of course. The house-elves are, quite literally, the only reason I am alive. I never remember a time when my mother cared for me, cooked for me, or did anything except take me from one place to another. The house-elves bandaged every scrape and cooked meals when nonnina couldn't. I spent most of my time at Hogwarts down in the kitchens with the elves there, learning from them. They are creatures of high caliber, with unflinching loyalty. All of my elves are paid, and I meant it when I offered to fund Granger's SPEW campaign. Don't tell her, but I still have my button."

Dean grinned wider than Blaise had seen all evening.

"I am absolutely telling her."

"It appears I have told you nearly everything about me, but I do not know as much about you. What do you do for work?"

"Oh! Right, well, I write children's books."

Blaise couldn't hide his surprise.

"Really?"

"Luna Lovegood, I suppose I should've included her in my list of family earlier, but we are quite close. We survived the war together, and she illustrates the books beautifully. It's a perfect partnership, one I hope to continue as long as I'm writing."

"You enjoy children?"

"They're the best. You won't meet a more honest group of people, nor one with more genuine humor. Right after the war I had such a rough go being inside buildings. I was stuck in the Malfoy cellar for a month, and it messed with my brain in ways I'm still figuring out."

"I am truly sorry for that."

"Why?" asked Dean. "It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Draco's fault either. The Dark Lord would've made his parents kill him if he even considered letting me out. The cellar was likely the safest place for me, anyway, but you have to understand the ceiling in there is about six-two. At seventeen I was six-one, so I could barely stand. After the war, everything inside was terrifying for awhile. My youngest sister saw something was wrong, and she decided for an hour or so a day we would find a patch of grass and look up at the clouds to find funny shapes. Zara doesn't have words like 'claustrophobia' or 'post-traumatic stress disorder.' Her entire thought process was, 'Dean is sad inside. Let's go outside.'"

"We could all do to think like that from time-to-time."

"Perhaps."

"Do you want to get married?" asked Blaise.

After swallowing a mouthful of cake, Dean admitted, "I don't know."

"Oh."

"I love so many people, and I enjoy being part of their families. Like with Harry and Ginny, or Luna, or Neville and Hannah. There are many more, but I won't bore you with names. Being married would mean that, perhaps, I'd be distant from them. If I marry someone, I'll end up caring for their family, too. I only have so much time."

"Doesn't it drain you?" asked Blaise. "Caring for that many people takes effort. Let alone caring for them well."

"I—" Dean frowned, then busied himself with the chocolate cake.

Blaise watched him lick chocolate sauce off the spoon, but didn't enjoy it the way he could've. He was focused on what he could have said wrong. Dean didn't say anything for a full minute, so Blaise sat there, conscious of every pair of eyes glancing their way. He was lost in thought when Dean spoke again.

"Everyone assumes it comes naturally," he said. "Being a good person. I've always had to work at it because it's difficult, but it's something I believed was worth doing. I don't see a point to being alive if I am anything less than that. I try not to judge people, I try to forgive, and I enjoy making people feel good. But it's something I've always done and people assume it's a natural occurrence. You are the first person to notice it takes effort."

"I know how wrong others' assumptions can be."

"You do." Dean sighed. "This cake is fantastic, by the way. I just—" Dean placed the spoon on the table and tossed his hands in the air. "I wasn't prepared to have a good time. I was prepared to put in effort to make this date worthwhile, but you did it for me."

"I wanted to."

"That's different. Quite different."

"Dean." Blaise leaned a bit forward and pushed the plate off to the side. "I have had a crush on you for ten years; I would burn this place down if that's what it took to make the night perfect."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" asked Dean. "Why have you allowed it to linger?"

"I thought you weren't interested in men!" Blaise half-shouted. "Even if I had known, you were with Finnegan and I am not the infidelity sort of man. Until you sat at this table I had no idea, and it's as though the universe has given me this one perfect thing. I do not intend to waste this night."

Dean pressed his lips together for a moment and nodded.

"Is that what this is? A night?"

"It is whatever you want it to be. If you don't want to come home with me, that is your choice—"

"No, Blaise," Dean laughed, "I was asking if you want this to be something more than one night."

"Yes."

"Wow, no, um, no thought needed there."

"Two dates, fifteen dates, whatever you want to give me, I will take. Being out with you is like being a child in Honeydukes with a thousand Galleons. I want everything."

"Wow. Right, then …" Dean shook his head. "In the spirit of honesty, this is one of the best meals I've ever eaten."

"Thank you for saying so."

"What do we do now, then?"

"We can end the date here, if you like. Or," Blaise offered, "you can chew on that mint while we walk to my house, where I plan to kiss you for as long as you'll let me."

"I did promise you the opportunity." Dean popped the sprig of mint into his mouth and asked, "Where do you live?"

"A small neighborhood in Wizarding London." Blaise stood up from the table and nodded toward the front door. "Let me show you."

Dean followed Blaise up to the front, and Blaise caught whispers from the waitstaff. He's never done that before. What does it mean? He must really like that guy. That's Dean Thomas. You know, the author? Oh, my friend knows him. Says he's the best person he's ever met. I hope the boss keeps him around. Dean gave no indication he heard them. Blaise walked up to the host and said,

"Will you please get my coat, along with the better half of table seventeen's?"

"Yes, sir," the host replied with a slight smile. "Straightaway." She was off immediately, rushing toward the coat closet as if Dean might realize he was about to make a massive mistake if she didn't return their coats quickly enough.

Dean stood silently next to Blaise, at ease. For his part, Blaise kept waiting for the usual tension to arrive. The anticipation, the primal need to keep his distance because the moment he touched his date he wouldn't be able to keep his hands off them. That feeling never arrived. Blaise wanted Dean's arm wrapped around his shoulders, to be pulled in close, and to look at the stars the way Dean's youngest sister made him look at the clouds.

"Here you are."

The host arrived with their coats in her outstretched arms. Blaise grabbed his and shoved his arms through the sleeves, nodding to her in thanks. He grabbed Dean's arm the moment he had his coat and half-flung him through the front doors. He'd never been so excited to show someone his home. Part of him desperately hoped Dean would like it. They stepped outside and the brisk March air stung a bit on their cheeks. Blaise took Dean's hand in his own and asked,

"Is this okay?"

Dean nodded, and Blaise took him Sidealong. They were spat out in front of Blaise's neighborhood gate. Dean couldn't catch his breath, whether from the Disapparition or the shock of seeing the neighborhood, Blaise wasn't sure. Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"Bloody hell, this looks unbelievable."

Blaise waved his hand and the gates swung open. As they began to walk down the street, Blaise said,

"Welcome to Asphodel Garden."

The houses were all nice, unique in their own quirky ways. None with more than six bedrooms, many with lights still on. Blaise kept looking up at Dean, surprised by how he appeared to be completely at home. As if he belonged in this environment, not in a lonely flat somewhere in Helga's Kitchen. Dean's breath pooled into a light cloud around his lips, and Blaise realized neither of them had pulled their hand away. With his gaze still trained on the houses, Dean said,

"I can feel you staring at me."

"Apologies," Blaise replied, looking instead toward the house at the end of the block. "I've never dated someone so much taller than me. I rather like it."

Dean blushed and admitted, "I like that you're tall."

"Barely up to your chin, though."

"Guess I'll have to ensure my beard's trimmed well, if you're going to keep looking up like that."

Blaise laughed and nodded toward the house on the corner of the street up ahead.

"That's mine."

"The brick one with the green door?"

"A small nod to my old House."

"It's … God, Blaise, it's so charming."

"Thank you!" Blaise replied, absolutely giddy as they approached the front steps. "Wait until you see the back yard."

"It's fantastic." Dean kept staring at the front of the house. "The vines 'round the front window, here. This gorgeous tree, and the transom window above the door—"

"Dean?" Blaise asked, standing in the doorway. "Do you want to see the inside?"

He half-thought Dean would say no, and they'd end up having sex beneath the tree. Dean shook himself out of his reverie and nodded.

"Yeah, show me how amazing this place is."

"Right, I don't really use the lock and key. It's mostly the wards since the neighborhood is protected well. If you come inside," Blaise shut the door once Dean stepped over the threshold, "the coat closet is here."

Dean slid off his coat and Blaise hung it up before undoing his own. Dean took a step back and surveyed Blaise from tip to toe. He nodded and said,

"As fond as I am of the apron, you look fantastic. I hadn't really gotten to see all of you, and it's … you're … just … Fucking amazing."

"Thank you." Blaise felt his own cheeks heat up. He cleared his throat and gestured toward the stairs.

"Six bedrooms in total, three on the second floor and two on the third. This one, right here, "Blaise gestured to a room on the opposite side of the hall, "is technically the sixth but I use it as my office. Living area there, dining area is down the hall on the left, and you may take a look anywhere you like."

Dean walked around a bit, first into the living area, then into the dining space. He nodded at certain points, asked questions Blaise was happy to answer, but something felt off with him. In the dining room, Blaise took a deep breath and asked,

"Would you like to see where I spend most of my time?"

"Of course!" Dean insisted. "Your kitchen?"

"My kitchen!" Blaise grabbed Dean's hand and half-dragged him through the double-doors and around the island by the refrigerator. He opened his arms wide and asked, "What do you think?"

Dean burst out laughing.

"My God, this makes so much sense with everything I've learned about you tonight. The rest of this house looks like it was put together by someone who doesn't ever use those rooms. None of it feels like you. This? This feels like you, Blaise. Bloody hell, look at this! You have three ovens!"

"Of course I have three ovens, so I can cook, bake, and broil simultaneously. Or cook things at different temperatures. I've been considering a pizza oven in the backyard—"

"And the largest fridge I have ever seen in my life. Look at this madness! Your spices are literally pushing the cabinet door open." Dean opened the fridge and said, "You have one, two, three, four, five different types of milk in here!"

Blaise frowned.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"No." Dean laughed and shook his head as he closed the refrigerator door. "No one I know would ever have five types of milk."

"I bake often," Blaise insisted. "I host parties and let friends stay over when they have nowhere else to go. I am always making food, and the elves know to keep certain things in stock and, incuding five separate types of milk."

"I'm not judging you."

Dean walked to where Blaise was leaning against the island. Blaise looked up at him and, whoa, he was much closer than he had reason to be. Blaise's breath caught in his chest as Dean placed his fingers on the side of Blaise's neck. He slowly ran the pad of his thumb across Blaise's lower lip and said,

"This room feels like your sort of chaos. I have never seen anything like it."

Dean stepped back like he wasn't sure they were ready for what was to come, but Blaise pulled him back by the lapels of his blazer and kissed him. It was gentle, and Blaise's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Dean pulled Blaise closer by the belt loops and Blaise broke this kiss with a soft sigh. All he could think to ask was,

"Why does your breath smell like strawberries?"

Dean smiled against Blaise's lips and admitted, "I popped a couple breath mints while we were waiting for our coats. Figured your natural approach only works so well."

Blaise kissed him again, quickly, then asked, "Would you like to do this here in the kitchen, or—"

"Anywhere with a bit more cushion than your countertop."

"Sofa?"

"Perfect."

Blaise took Dean's hand and led him back through the dining area then into the living space. He was a bit dizzy, recognizing he'd just had his first kiss with someone who would become very important to him. Important in a way Blaise was too afraid to name. Dean dropped Blaise's hand and unbuttoned his blazer. He draped it over the top of an armchair and Blaise wondered aloud,

"Do you normally wear clothes like this?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Do you always dress rather smart? Because most men I've encountered who do wouldn't bother to be so delicate with a blazer when I am standing here ready to be very, very much unclothed."

Dean laughed.

"You're right; I'm usually in jeans and a jumper or a t-shirt. Occasionally a jumper under a t-shirt. I wanted to look nice since I was going to such a posh restaurant. Now I'm quite glad I did."

"How would you like this to work, then?" asked Blaise.

"This, meaning …?"

Blaise placed one hand on Dean's waist. Dean tensed up and Blaise could almost hear him thinking, This is really happening. Blaise unbuttoned Dean's trousers and pulled down the zip. He pulled the button-down out of the trousers and toyed with the bottom button.

"This," Blaise looked up at Dean and said, "meaning the sex. In your deepest, naughtiest fantasy. One night with Blaise Zabini, what would you have me do?"

"Oh."

Dean thought about it for a minute. Blaise busied himself undoing the bottom button of Dean's shirt. Then the next, and the next to reveal a trail of dark, fine hair leading down to the upper hem of his pants. His abdominal muscles were gently defined; Dean Thomas was "fucking fit" as Ginny would say. Blaise undid another button, anxious to—

"I assume you'd like the honest answer."

"Hmm?" Blaise tried to remember what he said seconds earlier and piece the conversation together, but the more buttons Blaise unfastened, the further away the English language seemed to be. "I always want you to be honest with me."

"But if we only had the once, I would want you to go down on me. Get me off, because it matters to you. Because watching me come winds you up so tight it feels like you're going to break into a thousand pieces. Then you use me to get yourself off. Quick, hot, uncontrollable desire. That's what I would want from you in my head."

"Then that is what I'll give you."

Blaise continued to undo the buttons of Dean's shirt, making quick, steady work of them. It was a decent-quality shirt, more of a high street quality. The skin of Dean's chest was smooth, and a tan line had faded to nearly indistinguishable just above his pants. Blaise asked,

"What's this from?"

"Football."

Dean's voice sounded a bit strained, so Blaise looked up to see his jaw set and his eyebrows nearly knitting themselves together. He was so still, as if he was afraid to move. Blaise placed his hands on Dean's shoulders and said,

"You can touch me. You should touch me."

Dean nodded.

"I was waiting for you to say that I could."

"Yes, I appreciate that, and I want you to." Blaise trailed his hands down the front of Dean's chest, over the button-down, noting the three buttons clinging together at the top. He took Dean's hands in his own and said, "I want to watch you unfasten my belt, unbutton my trousers, and unzip them."

Dean made quick work of Blaise's belt, then bent to kiss him as if to say, This does not need to be slow. Blaise felt Dean undo the button of his trousers and broke the kiss just in time to see him pull down the zip. Dean stuffed his hand down the front of Blaise's trousers and palmed his dick over his pants. Blaise leaned forward, gripping the back of Dean's shirt as he bucked up into Dean's palm. He groaned,

"Yes. Perfect."

Dean kissed Blaise's cheek, then moved to the underside of his jaw, then made a trail of kisses down the side of his neck as he continued to rut against Dean's hand. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, Dean's hand was gone. Blaise opened his eyes and asked,

"What the hell was that?"

"I, um," Dean licked his lips and asked, "Would you mind undressing yourself while I watch?"

"You want me to make a show of it?"

"Not necessarily. It's just that when I was with Seamus I always did the work during sex. I want to know what it feels like to be on the other side of that, is all."

Blaise led Dean over to the sofa and pushed him backward until Dean landed with a soft, oof! He pulled the belt from its loops and tossed it at Dean, who laughed.

"You're very accommodating of guests, Mr. Zabini."

Blaise toed off his socks and pushed his trousers down to his ankles. He picked them up from the floor and tossed them at Dean.

"Do you plan to fold those, too?" Blaise teased as he pulled the jumper over his head.

Dean laughed and tossed the trousers toward the edge of the sofa.

"Put your jumper there, as well."

Blaise obliged him and pulled off his undershirt quickly after. He tossed it on the pile and stood in front of Dean Thomas in nothing but his pants. Dean nodded to Blaise's half-hard dick and said,

"You enjoyed that?"

"I enjoyed touching you."

"Come here, then."

Blaise straddled Dean on the sofa and kissed him as hard as he could, bracing himself against the back. Dean placed his hands on Blaise's waist and secured him there. He pulled back and unfastened the three remaining buttons of Dean's shirt. Blaise fanned out the collar and wondered how Dean's bare skin would feel beneath her fingers. For his part, Dean was very still; the only movement was his thumb tracing small circles in the dip of Blaise's hip. Blaise tugged on one sleeve and asked,

"Will you take this off?"

Dean nodded and sat up a bit straighter, so their chests were pressed together. Blaise traced the curve of Dean's spine with curious, tentative fingers. Dean held the cuff of one sleeve as he pulled his arm out, then did the same on the other side. Dean shrugged off the shirt, balled it up, then tossed it toward the end of the sofa where it could rest atop Blaise's discarded clothes. Blaise placed his hands on Dean's shoulders then slowly felt his way down Dean's arms. He was thin, but it was all tightly corded muscle. Blaise shook his head and asked,

"Why would you ever wear anything with sleeves?"

Dean laughed and leaned back to rest against the cushions.

"I suppose I'll never be able to invite you over to my flat. I'd wake up to find you've ripped the sleeves off all my jumpers."

Blaise insisted, "I would be doing the world a service." He placed his hands on Dean's shoulders and admitted, "You're so thin, I should've given you three courses. How do you have so much muscle, anyhow?"

"I told you," Dean replied, "football."

Blaise guessed, "Muggle sport?"

Dean nodded and rolled his hips. Blaise hummed his approval when he felt Dean's cock against his own through the fabric. Suddenly, Blaise was sixteen again, all the nerves and inexperience and the need to feel more. He ground down against Dean and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. He pushed his hips down again, and again, and again, desperately searching for friction. Dean leaned backward and closed his eyes, so Blaise bit down on a spot just above Dean's collarbone and sucked.

"Mmmhmm, oh," Dean moaned. He placed one hand on the back of Blaise's neck to hold him there for a moment. "Yeah, that's good."

Blaise ran the pad of his thumb across the mark and huffed,

"'That's good?' Not exactly flowery with prose, are you?"

Dean didn't bother opening his eyes when he smiled. He didn't say anything for a minute, just ran his hands up and down Blaise's back, then traced the line of Blaise's spine with one finger. Something about the simple touches, about the way Blaise felt the gentle rise and fall of Dean's chest against his own … The desperate need faded to something else that Blaise didn't have a name for. Safety, perhaps? Warmth. He never wanted to leave Dean's arms and wished they could keep floating along like this. Stay in this stolen moment where all the tension had gone and—

"You're thinking too much." Dean cracked one eye open and insisted, "I can hear you thinking."

Blaise pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek and replied, "I'm going to stand now, so you can take your trousers off."

Dean lifted his head and took his hands off Blaise's hips. Blaise stood up on his right foot first, then the left, and one of his knees popped so loud it cracked the silence wide open. Dean doubled-over he laughed so hard.

"God, you're the most gorgeous man I've ever seen but your joints creak louder than my mum's!"

"Cazzo!" Blaise squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but he couldn't hold back a laugh. "I am never this awkward during sex."

Dean wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he asked, "What is it about tonight, then?"

"The honest answer?"

"I always want you to be honest with me."

"Oh," Blaise teased, "cheeky, aren't you?"

"Seriously, what about me makes this awkward for you?"

"Nothing about you, it's just how desperate I am to impress you. For fuck's sake, Dean, I'm as hard as I've ever been in my life and you are still in your trousers!"

Dean took a deep, slow breath in.

"I'm going to explain what is happening right now, but I need you to stop thinking with your cock for a moment."

Blaise nodded and insisted, "I can do that."

"I've only ever slept with one man, and Shea is a foot shorter than me. We were together for years and things got a bit …" Dean frowned. "Repetitive. Everything about this, how you look, your height, the way you're touching me, the way I get to touch you—it's all very different. I don't know how this works, or what I like. And I keep thinking, what if this is the only time I do this with you? Am I good enough on the first go? What am I allowed to do?"

"We are both thinking too much, then, but you seem so relaxed."

"I am, because I trust you. And you're not afraid to let me laugh in the middle of this."

"Dean, you began this date with another man. I'm staring at your abs and thinking maybe I should've fed you a bit more. It's difficult not to laugh; this whole thing is absurd."

Dean admitted, "I keep wondering whether one of your elves will walk in on us."

"No, the wards alerted them I have a visitor. The head of staff confirmed this is the sort of visit that will not require their presence until it is requested."

Without preamble, Dean lifted his bum off the sofa cushion and pushed his trousers and pants down to his knees in one motion. He bent forward a bit to pull them off and threw them in the direction of the growing pile of clothes. Blaise stared at Dean's half-hard cock and couldn't stop the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"Your first date had the right idea."

Dean's cheeks turned the slightest bit pink, and he asked, "Would you keep your pants on for me?"

Blaise nodded.

"Do you … Do you know what you want now?"

Dean shook his head.

"I know I said I wanted you to go down on me, but I don't know if that's best or—"

"We'll begin there, then, and you provide the instructions when needed." Blaise teased, "Tonight, I am but a humble servant to your impressive cock."

Dean snickered. He opened his legs and leaned backward, lacing his fingers together behind his head. He nodded slightly to the space between his knees.

"Then kneel before me, Zabini."

Blaise couldn't keep the smile off his face. Sex had never been this playful before. As he knelt down between Dean's legs, Blaise placed his hands on Dean's hips and slowly trailed his fingers down the length of Dean's thighs. He felt the muscles tense ever so slightly, as Dean finally began to acknowledge he was enjoying this. Blaise wrapped his left hand around Dean's dick and applied the slightest bit of pressure. Dean hummed and closed his eyes, satisfied.

Blaise licked the palm of his hand then fisted Dean's dick. He worked his hand up and down, noting the slight rise and fall of Dean's hips to match the speed. As Dean's cock firmed up, Blaise watched the tension leave Dean's body. His legs opened the slightest bit wider, then he nestled further down into the sofa cushions. Blaise thumbed at the spot on the underside of Dean's cock, just below the head, and Dean's back arched completely off the sofa.

"FUCK, yes, that's good."

"Like that, do you?" Blaise teased.

Dean kicked at him with one foot.

"There are far better things you should be doing with your mouth."

Eager to please, Blaise licked up from the base of Dean's cock to the tip. He was rewarded with a delightful moan. Blaise traced the tip with his tongue before taking the head of Dean's dick into his mouth. He sucked, then bobbed up and down a bit so each of them could acclimate to this position. Dean didn't move much; he smiled, punch-drunk as he let Blaise work. Blaise kept glancing up at him to ensure he was enjoying it.

A few minutes later, just when Blaise's jaw began to ache, Dean threaded his fingers in Blaise's hair. He guided Blaise to the appropriate speed. Blaise wrapped his hands around the tops of Dean's thighs and tugged him forward a bit on the sofa. Dean lifted his head, and his thrusts became increasingly erratic. Blaise popped off for a moment and bit lightly into Dean's thigh. He was desperate to leave a mark, something to prove he had Dean in this position. Something to remind Dean just how badly he wanted Blaise when he woke up the next morning. He had little time to wonder why he had become so possessive as Dean shoved his dick back into Blaise's mouth. He worked his throat open and took Dean nearly to the hilt. He cupped Dean's bollocks with gentle fingers and the hold on his hair tightened.

"Blaise?"

He lifted himself off of Dean's dick just far enough to mumble, "Hmm?"

"I want …" Dean's breathing stuttered a bit. "I wanna come in your mouth."

Blaise nodded and worked his open fist around Dean's dick a few times until he saw the muscles of Dean's stomach tense. He went down on Dean again, flattened his tongue, and tugged at Dean's balls with one hand. Dean thrust up into Blaise's throat far enough to make him gag, but kept one hand on the back of Blaise's head to keep him in place. Dean's eyes fluttered shut and he came with a heavy sigh. Blaise tried to breathe through his nose, but gagged once again. Dean let go and Blaise popped off, taking heavy breaths. Dean looked like he'd downed a gallon of Felix Felicis, spread out looking completely boneless across Blaise's sofa.

Dean opened his eyes a moment later and leaned forward to pull Blaise into a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. He pulled back before Blaise quite realized what was happening, and held Blaise's face in his hands. He shook his head and looked at Blaise, completely awestruck.

"The way you look right now. It's … my come in the corner of your mouth. You look wrecked, Blaise Zabini."

"Is it what you wanted?"

His voice sounded desperate even to his own ears. Dean shook his head.

"I didn't know what I wanted. This is better."

Blaise sighed in relief. Dean asked,

"How would you like to—"

"Can I just—"

"Yeah, sure, whatever you need."

"Good." Blaise pushed himself up using the sofa and said, "This is going to take an embarrassingly small amount of time because watching you come was better than anything I could have dreamt." He pushed Dean toward the end of the sofa and said, "Lie flat with your forehead and your arms resting on the end."

Dean nodded and did as he was told. His feet landed on their pile of clothes, so Blaise said,

"Kick them off."

Again, Dean obliged without question. Blaise pulled off his pants and laid on top of Dean; left leg first, then the right. He situated his dick in the cleft of Dean's arse, then flattened himself against every part of Dean he could touch.

"Comfortable up there?"

Blaise thrust once and let out an undignified, needy moan.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Blaise nodded into Dean's shoulder and tried to find somewhere to put his arms. After a moment, Dean lifted them both up far enough for Blaise to hook his left arm underneath Dean's chest and use his right to brace against the arm of the sofa. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but they wouldn't be in it long.

The feeling Blaise had been waiting for appeared unexpectedly. He'd bent himself so far in a desperate need to please Dean Thomas, that he'd already cracked himself apart into a dozen pieces. All Blaise could feel was the need, the inexperienced want. He thrust his hips, his cock between the cheeks of Dean's bum. Again. He snapped his hips and bit down on Dean's shoulder to keep from crying out. God, his bum was firm. Just like every part of Dean: thin, firm, perfect—Blaise felt his orgasm begin to build. He squeezed his eyes shut just as Dean wrapped his lips around Blaise's thumb and sucked.

The soft, wet heat of Dean's mouth did Blaise in. He snapped his hips once, twice, then whispered Dean's name as he came. He pulled his hand away and continued to rut against Dean's bum until it hurt. He stood up on shaky legs and rushed to the kitchen where he wet a small towel. He cleaned himself up then wet the towel again. He found Dean in the same position, his forehead resting on the arm of the sofa. Blaise gently wiped the come off the curve of Dean's lower back. He vanished the towel back to the kitchen and waited for Dean to sit up before collapsing onto the sofa himself. His voice was hoarse when he asked,

"Was it what you wanted?"

Dean wrapped his arm around Blaise's shoulders and pulled him close. Blaise leaned into him, more comfortable than he'd been in ages.

"You knew what I wanted better than I did."

"Good. You were so good."

Blaise's eyelids were heavy and Dean was tracing small circles onto Blaise's skin with the pad of his thumb. The steady pattern was soothing, and Blaise let his eyes shut for a moment. The house itself had never felt much like a home, certainly not as comfortable as Blaise could be in the chaos of his kitchens. Blaise never really had a home, just places. Place after place after place, a never-ending cycle of large houses and penthouses and estates. Never a home. Right then, on the sofa, being held by Dean Thomas, Blaise supposed this house could be home somehow. With the proper person in it.

.oOo.

Blaise woke up sometime later, decidedly not on the sofa. The first thing he noticed was a blanket over him, which he gripped between his fingers. It was soft, his favourite, and someone had placed a fluffy pillow beneath his head. Blaise rolled his head to one side, cracked his neck, and winced. He had been asleep awhile, then. He opened his eyes to see the familiar ceiling; morning light filtered in through the window on the left. He looked down to confirm he wasn't wearing anything, not even a pair of pants. Blaise glanced around the room, exactly the same as it had always been; door on the right, bedside table on the left, loo straight ahead.

What the hell happened last night?

"Morning."

Blaise sat up on his elbows and looked over to see Dean Thomas, leaning against the doorframe. He'd gotten himself more clothes, a pair of black jeans and a chunky purple jumper. Blaise chuckled softly to himself.

"Thought I dreamt last night."

"Oh, no, it was very real. Though I doubt you remember walking upstairs."

"I do not."

"Right, because I had to half-carry you up here." Dean pulled his arm out from behind his back to reveal a fresh plate. "I made you eggs. Your house-elves talked me through it. Fortunately, you are well-stocked. I made more than one failed attempt."

Blaise held out one hand and Dean brought over the plate. He produced a fork and Blaise didn't realize how hungry he was until food had been placed in front of him. Dean revealed,

"Your house-elves offered to go to my flat and get me a new outfit, which I appreciated until they came back with this outfit and pronounced it, 'Literally the only thing worth owning' in my closet."

Blaise laughed.

"I take pride in having the most pretentious house-elves north of the equator. God, I'd forgotten to eat last night, I was so focused on cooking for you."

"It's the best meal I've ever had."

"I will cook for you whenever you like, Dean Thomas. You only need to ask."

"So what …" Dean sighed and asked, "What do we do now?"

"Whatever you like."

"I dunno how this works. Should I—"

"You should ask if I am free for dinner tonight so you can take me out."

"Are you free for dinner?"

"When?"

"Tonight?"

"Sorry," Blaise teased, "I can't. Restaurant business. Are you free Sunday afternoon?"

"For you? Hell yes."

"Then I want you to take me out on a date."

"Will you go out with me on Sunday?"

"Yes. If you'll let me get dressed, I'll walk you to the Disapparition point."

"Yeah."

Blaise flung off the blanket and pulled Dean into a long, slow kiss. He tugged at the collar of Dean's jumper and pulled back.

"Apologies for morning breath—"

"No need."

Dean kissed Blaise quickly on the lips, once on the cheek, then nodded toward the bathroom.

"You should get dressed, though. You're quite distracting without clothes."

"We could have a go of it in the bed this time."

Dean shook his head.

"No, because then you'll think all I want is sex. That's not it at all."

"No?"

"No." Dean blushed and looked down at the bed as he admitted, "You feel important to me."

"You are important, Dean." Blaise stood up and made his way to the bathroom. He casually turned around to say, "This relationship will be important to me."

"Your clothes are important to me."

Blaise laughed then shut the bathroom door. He quickly set about brushing his teeth, washing his face, and running some product through his hair. He didn't realize he was smiling until he glanced at himself in the mirror, but it was routine from then on.

Pants.

Undershirt.

Trousers? No, jeans. The ones that made his bum look nice.

Shirt? No. Jumper? No. The grey cashmere sweater. It would be soft when Dean touched it.

Socks.

Two mists from the brand of cologne Blaise pilfered off Husband #4 once.

He pulled one of his watches off the stand without care for which it was, and clasped it on his left wrist. He paced the length of the bathroom twice, reminding himself not to fuck this up. It was Dean. Dean Thomas. He could do this. Blaise took a deep breath then walked back into the bedroom.

Dean looked at Blaise then fell backward onto the bed.

"How do you manage to look sexier with your clothes on?"

"An excellent tailor."

"Hah."

Blaise walked over to the bed, sat on the edge, then fell backward so he and Dean were both staring up at the ceiling. Dean said,

"Thank you for last night."

"You deserved to be treated properly."

"You were more than proper. You were everything I'd never even thought to want in a date."

"I meant what I said last night. I was desperate to impress you because this isn't one date to me. Forgive my candor, but I hope to be your boyfriend whenever that is a label you are comfortable with."

"Is it mad that I'm comfortable with it right now?"

"I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?"

"I do have to leave."

Blaise admitted, mostly to the ceiling, "I wish you wouldn't."

"Well, according to your house-elves I need to go shopping."

"Do you want me to take you?"

"No." Dean sighed. "I think I'd only ending up dressing to impress you, not really much for myself."

"I see. Well, I suppose you can show me your flat, at least?"

"No! No, I think you'd find it pathetically small and it's not my home. Not really." Dean stood up and said, "I should be getting back, though."

"Of course."

Blaise stood up and led Dean downstairs. They both put on their shoes in the entryway then Summoned their coats. Blaise opened the door and nodded for Dean to walk through before shutting it behind them. It was a crisp morning, late enough that the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood was in full swing. Dean took Blaise's hand in his own and threaded their fingers together. Blaise's heart did a little flip. People would see them together. His neighbors would see him holding hands with Dean Thomas.

As they walked down the stairs, Dean casually mentioned,

"I like this neighborhood."

"It's a nice place to be. Most people come here to start a family, but I just wanted somewhere all my friends could come and feel safe. Everyone here keeps their judgements to themselves for the most part. Even Draco can come and go as he pleases without fear of parents whisking their children to the next block."

"You care deeply for your friends."

Blaise replied, "Just like you."

It was only about three blocks to the gate, but everyone seemed to know Dean. The Gravemans' grandmother waved to him from her chair on the porch. I send her a copy of each book so she can read it to her grandkids. The Schoops' children ran up to give him hugs. I read my books at the library and they're at every new release. Then they ran into the Wisdoms, who nodded at Dean from across the street. Blaise shook his head and said,

"How do you know everyone? It's like walking around with the Minister for Magic."

Dean shrugged.

"Dunno, I just try to be kind to people when I meet them. They remember that."

"I admire you for it."

"Well I can tell you what everyone thinks when they see us together."

"What's that?"

"They look at me, and they look at you, then think to themselves, 'I never put them together before. But now that I see it, I can't imagine either of them with someone else.'"

As they approached the gate, Blaise admitted, "This feels different from anyone I've been with before. Twenty-four hours ago I didn't even know you were interested in men."

Dean hugged Blaise around the shoulders and held him for a moment. Blaise wrapped his arms around Dean's waist and sighed.

"Thank you for letting me sit at your table last night."

"Blaise, you literally own the restaurant. You can sit wherever you want."

"But you let me stay."

"Because I wanted you to stay."

"Then stay here with me. Spend the morning. Let me make you breakfast."

"If I did, then you would convince me to stay for lunch, then dinner, and I'd never make it back to my flat. Not that I don't want to come back, because I do. If I dared to look at my future, Blaise, I'd love for it to happen here with you. But I'm still scared to get involved with anyone after Seamus. I went out last night to ease my way back into dating. Didn't know I'd end up finding a man I can see a future with after a single night together."

Blaise's heart jumped up into his throat when Dean said, A man I can see a future with. Blaise was on the same page, clinging to the back of Dean's coat. He didn't want to break the magic of the moment. He insisted,

"It was a good night."

"It was a great night, Blaise. The best night I've ever had with the best food I've ever eaten, but I need you to let me take this slow."

"Okay."

Blaise tried to step away, but Dean held him close.

"I haven't finished. The Wisdoms are quick gossips, so everyone will know we were seen together likely before the end of the day. When people ask if it's true, I want to tell them you are my boyfriend. That means you don't get to steal anyone else's date."

Blaise laughed.

"You are the only date I want on my arm, Dean Thomas."

"All thanks to a crab salad." Dean tugged on the collar of Blaise's coat, like he wanted to lean in for a kiss but thought better of it. "I will see you on Sunday."

"See you tomorrow."

Dean finally dropped his hold on Blaise and walked toward the gate. Blaise watched him step outside and Disapparate. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and mumbled,

"I'm going to marry that man if he lets me."