Work Text:
It happens one night, while they’re sitting on the sofa. Harry’s feet are comfortably tucked under Draco’s bum, his eyes transfixed on a beautiful anthology of Wizarding folk stories from around the world, its gorgeous illustrations literally leaping off the page. Next to him, Draco sighs, eyes cast downwards but completely unfocused. His own book rests on his lap, untouched, not one page turned in the last twenty minutes.
His second sigh is deeper, chest filling in, and then violently out through his mouth. He squirms around and Harry’s feet are suddenly too warm and squished uncomfortably under Draco’s weight.
Harry finally breaks mid-third sigh.
“Is everything okay?”
Draco closes his book with soft thud, and turns to Harry, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I got a job.”
Harry feels himself relax at the good news, then realises Draco doesn’t look happy.
“What’s the problem?”
Later that night, when Draco is fast asleep next to him, body wrapped around his own, Harry regrets asking. It’s not that Draco could have kept the secret for long. Harry just doesn’t know what to do about it. The opportunity for Draco to travel the continent to aid a former lecturer in researching priceless original manuscripts and ancient texts is too good to pass on. Harry’s ache in his heart is selfish and he is ashamed of feeling anything other than joy for him.
It’s just that… well. Everything had been going perfectly, if you ask Harry.
Until now, that is.
In the few months Harry and Draco had been dating, the number of books in the flat above the coffee shop had multiplied at an alarming rate. In fact, Harry had run out of shelf space rapidly, and every room in the flat now houses books. The living room is now lined wall to wall with shelving, books crammed on every available surface. The kitchen houses a small trolley piled high with books, one wrong move away from toppling over. Harry’s even fitted a high shelf along the length of the hallway all the way from the front door, paperbacks stacked in alphabetical order along the wall.
The books are a very minor part of the changes in Harry’s life. But he can’t deny that medieval literature turned into classics, which turned into Wizarding literature turned into anything Harry can get his hands on, which in turn, turned Harry into a massive bookworm. These days, the barista is rarely seen behind the counter without a book in his hand, when he’s not making coffees.
Coffee isn’t all Harry makes anymore, either. Every week, the day after his many bags of deliciously fragrant beans arrive, a delivery comes from Parvati and Lavender’s tea shop in Diagon Alley. Behind the counter, a second shelf now sits beneath the coffee shelf, this one lined with tins of different tea blends. Centre stage is his boyfriend’s favourite Darjeeling. His love for coffee hasn’t dwindled, but some nights, Draco picks out a specialty tea which they drink out of dainty little teacups and Harry’s come to reluctantly appreciate.
Draco is still not a coffee fan, but continues to prefer poetry (especially of the medieval kind) to Harry’s wide range of tales. He loves how much Harry loves words now, and will happily sit and listen whenever Harry has a new (or old) tale, a line that pulls at the heart, a turn of phrase that he desperately needs to share.
All in all, it is a peaceful and quiet existence that suits them both just fine.
Everything really is quite perfect. Draco’s presence is a breath of fresh hair in Harry’s days and Harry’s heart isn’t quite ready to face change. But that’s no reason to be a selfish prick now, is it?
After a night of tossing and turning, he faces the problem the only way he knows how to. Gryffindorishly: head on. But only after his morning coffee, naturally.
Draco finds him in his shop, leaning against the counter, a simple cappuccino in hand.
“Spiced Rooibos?” Harry asks, in lieu of ‘good morning’. Draco nods, and helps himself to a chocolate twist from the pastry display before settling in the corner, at his usual table.
Harry brings the tea over.
“I’m sor—”
“I don’t have to g—”
“Oh, sorry, you go,” Harry says, and looks around. It’s early and there are only a couple more customers in the coffee shop. He pulls the chair across from Draco and sits down.
“No, you go first,” Draco insists.
Harry takes a deep breath and brings forward the twenty-six times he rehearsed this conversation in the shower, that very morning.
“I am so happy for you.” That’s a good start, he tells himself. “I felt… a little hurt at the thought of you going away. I have gotten used to your presence in my life and the thought of not seeing you made me sad. But this is so, so exciting and we both know this could be the first step towards you getting to do what you love for the rest of your life.” He pauses, sips on his coffee for a moment, bracing for what he has to say next. “I’m just… I was harsh last night and I’m sorry. I’m going to miss you so much.”
Draco is smiling.
“It’s only a few months. And…” he looks bashful then. “Well, there is a reason why I didn’t tell you earlier. I’ve been doing some research, sent some owls to some people.”
Harry looks at him, confused.
“A while ago, you probably don’t remember, I mentioned your old owl. Hedwig?” Harry’s heart thumps madly in his chest. “I know you loved her, Harry. And I know that’s why you never got another one. But seeing as I’ll be staying in Muggle accommodation, Floo won’t be an option. And I thought… well, I asked around a little.” He takes a breath and looks up at Harry with a small smile. “I found Hedwig’s family. I was right. She had owlets before you even got her. And her owlets have had owlets after too. If you’d like, I want to get you one of Hedwig’s descendants. As a… parting gift, a way for us to communicate while I’m away, and a treat to keep you company.”
Draco, in his infinite wisdom, always knows what to say. Harry knows this is one of the reasons he will miss him so desperately.
*
Harry doesn’t mean to, but he keeps pushing the owl quest back. He knows he can’t refuse it. If he’s honest, he’s actually looking forward to having an owl around again. Hedwig had been his only company for too many long summers at the Dursleys’. He misses her every day, although the ache gets easier to bear over time.
He puts it off until it’s impossible not to, until Draco is leaving post-its on the mirror and on the kettle, inside the tea box and inside his underwear drawer. A line from a poem, and a little owl shaped doodle. A reference to Harry’s latest read, a row of small bird foot tracks, as if an owl had walked over the bright paper.
They close the café early on the last Sunday before Draco leaves, and Draco Apparates him over to the Owl Sanctuary in Scotland. Harry is surprised to be greeted by a friendly face, as Hagrid welcomes them with a smile on his face, ushering them into a small cabin at the edge of the endless patch of land.
“Oh, I’ve been working with the Sanctuary for a couple of years now. Not much to do at Hogwarts in the Summer now that I’ve got Neville doing most of the work, so I come over here and give the folks here a helping hand. This is where we used to send our injured owls from Hogwarts,” he explains. “But, never mind, lads. I know why you’re here. I never even knew these little owls were related to Hedwig at all, Harry. But Susan, the lady that runs this place, is great at paper keeping.”
Something lights up in Harry’s chest, a small fire, quiet but definitely there and he knows he can’t refuse this. It feels right that Hagrid should be here, it feels right that Hagrid, through Draco, gets Harry his new owl, just like he’d done all those years back.
The kettle whistles from a small camping stove and Hagrid busies himself with tea making, the silence filled with easy small talk and a report of how every Weasley is doing, upon Hagrid’s request.
Once tea has been served, Hagrid moves to a cabinet on the right side of the cabin and rifles through it gently, passing a small folder into Draco’s hands.
“You have all about them in there. You can see how they’re related to Hedwig.”
Draco had told him all about it. A safe tracking system of all the protected animals, a simple spell that had managed to help them trace every owl for generations.
With the folder open on the coffee table in front of them, Harry finds Hedwig and traces the line from her down many generations to the youngest owls, the ones still in the Sanctuary. Harry stops at the names, mouth agape.
“Did you do this?” he asks Draco, who leans in closer to read, before releasing a soft but contagious laugh.
“I’m afraid I had nothing to do with it.”
Harry smiles, his heart surprisingly light. “It must be fate, then.”
And off they go to meet the owls. As they walk further into the woods, they learn from Hagrid that every nest is named according to a different theme. Apparently, just weeks prior, they’d named a bunch of owlets after Muggle musicians, and Harry can’t help but giggle at the thought of a Great Horned Owl called Elvis.
He can’t quite believe that the owls Draco brought him to see are named after characters in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, but he supposes it’s really not the weirdest coincidence that’s happened in his life.
*
They bring Bertilak home later that day. He and his siblings had no longer been babies at all, but he is much smaller than Hedwig had been all those years ago. Not quite Pigwidgeon small, but still only a small thing. Harry watches him hop about on his kitchen table, watches him as he dips its beak primly into the water bowl in the large cage Draco bought him, watches him as he flies to the top of the cupboards and observes the room from up high, big wide eyes open in curiosity.
Draco makes tea, leaving Harry to quietly observe his new friend getting used to every corner of his new home.
Bertilak flies down from the cupboard, landing on Harry’s head with a coo.
“Hello,” Harry says, gently, lifting his hand to blindly pet Bertilak. The soft feathers feel familiar, almost comfortable, and Harry lifts his eyes up to Draco, watching them from the kitchen counter.
“Thank you,” he mouths, hoping Draco knows just how much he is thanking him for.
*
The silence is as comfortable as it was before. Even with Draco’s bags packed up by the door, with his toothbrush missing in the cup in the bathroom, his tin of Darjeeling empty in the cupboard.
“I’m gonna have to reduce the amount of tea I order for the next three months. I’m pretty sure you consume at least half of it all by yourself.”
Draco smiles, turns to kiss Harry right on the corner of his mouth. “Bring me more when you come visit? I’ll run out by the time we make it to Germany, if not before.”
Bertilak hoots from the corner.
“I think Bertie is saying he’ll miss you,” Harry says.
“Please don’t call him that. Also he’ll see me more than you will, don’t project your feelings onto poor Bertilak.”
Harry rises from the table to hug Draco properly.
“I will, though. Lots. Miss you, I mean.”
Draco kisses him, never lingering. The bittersweet feeling of the imminent goodbye hanging over them.
“I know. I’ll miss you too. What will you write on your first letter?”
Harry splutters, not unamused.
“How am I meant to know!?”
“Well, you’ll have to write first,” Draco says, his hand settling on Harry’s cheek. “So I can send you Bertilak back with my answer.”
A cheeky smile settles on Harry’s face to match Draco’s.
“Oh, that I miss you oh so desperately, that the colour has drained out of my days and that I don’t know how to live without you? That not even coffee tastes good anymor—“
Draco swats him on the head lightly.
“What? You asked!” Harry says, with a laugh.
“I was thinking more something along the lines of,” Draco starts, and clears his throat before reciting:
To me you are the vilest of rolling pins,
scrotum's horn, do not rise up or wave about,
gift to the noble ladies of Christendom,
nut-pole of the lap's cavity,
snare shape, gander
sleeping in its yearling plumage,
neck with a wet head and milk-giving shaft,
tip of a growing shoot, stop your awkward jerking,
crooked blunt one, accursed pole,
centre pillar of a girl's two halves,
head of a stiff conger-eel with a hole in it,
blunt barrier like a fresh hazel-pole.
Harry is giggling halfway through and actual tears roll down his cheeks by the time Draco finishes his recitation, serious as day.
“That’s— oh god, that’s from that poem, isn’t it? You’re a trouserful of wantonness? You learned it?”
Draco smiles.
“Well, I had to know what the hell you were on about. Only a maniac like you would learn that of all things to impress me.”
“Were you not impressed?” Harry asks, leaning in.
“Still impressed. Very,” Draco says. Then, with a glance at the clock on the wall, “I have to go. See you in a few weeks?”
“You certainly will.”
*
Despite it all, Harry was an extremely adaptable man. He’d had to be, really.
His routine falls into place again after a week or two. He reads, he sees friends, and he gets lost in the easy routine of making drinks and talking to customers — the stream of early risers desperate for a coffee, the mid-morning brunch dwellers, the all-the-way-until-closing-time students needing to finish their papers.
And every morning, he opens the shop with either a letter from Draco, or a pen in hand for a reply. Communication is slow with Bertilak staying with Draco overnight whenever he delivers a letter, but Harry finds it... well, he finds it all quite romantic, not that he’d ever admit it out loud.
He’d gotten a long letter from Draco the evening before, a tale of beautiful illuminations in gold leaf and priceless manuscripts Draco could only touch with special cotton gloves or under fancy lights. As always, Draco doesn’t leave out the bawdy or ridiculous details — this time he tells Harry about a 13th century manuscript Draco is convinced was definitely written by a wizard, though translators and researchers insist, of course, it is purely fiction. Harry is not convinced that, amongst flying cock monsters and arse-trumpets, magic would be that out of place. Every letter of Draco’s makes Harry miss him terribly, leaving behind an ache in his chest, even as he laughs at its content. Draco is truly, really, nothing but himself, and he’s clearly having the time of his life. Harry doesn’t have it in himself to feel sad about it.
Harry settles behind the counter with a vanilla latte after the morning rush and takes pen to paper.
“Draco,
This is my last letter before I close the shop for the weekend and come see you! I went to see Padma a couple of days ago and I can’t believe you need me to bring this many books! You look at books every day! Why do you need more books to look at? Anyway, I have them, because I am a delight (and wouldn’t dare face your rage if I turned up without them). Thank Merlin for lightening charms.
Bertilak and I went up to see Hagrid yesterday like you suggested. Hagrid gave me some drops I am to mix in his water if he’s caught in the rain during these long journeys, but he seems confident he is a young owl and it’s nothing he can’t handle.
I am hoping these recent adventures of yours have cleared your silly distaste for translated literature. I may or may not have found the name Bernart de Ventadorn in one of these books Padma gave me, and I may or may not have since found this, too:
This love wounds my heart
with a sweet taste, so gently,
I die of grief a hundred times a day
and a hundred times revive with joy.
My pain seems beautiful,
this pain is worth more than any pleasure;
and since I find this bad so good,
how good will be the good when this suffering is done.
Bit much? It sounds better than a simple “I miss you,” anyway. You’re the wordsmith. I’m just here to look pretty and make coffee.
In all seriousness, once you send Bertie back I’m popping over to Ron and Hermione’s for dinner and dropping him off with them while I’m away for the weekend. Rosie is quite taken with him. She has apparently been changing the colours of her teddies, so let’s hope I don’t come home to a blue Bertilak. I’m sure he’d look quite dashing even then. Luna has the spare key to the shop and she’s handling anything that can’t wait. I know you’re thinking it, so: yes, she is also watering the plants.
Padma suggested a Hamburg and Berlin travel guide but I figured you’ve already come up with a ridiculously complicated itinerary for us anyway.
In case the poem didn’t make it clear: I can’t wait to see you.
Yours,
Harry
x”