Harry walked briskly through the moderately crowded streets of Diagon Alley toward Clock Wise, cursing under his breath at his own tardiness. It was nearly half past eight already. Harry loathed being late as a general rule, was even known for being obscenely early to appointments or dinner dates, but being off schedule today of all days... The examiner from the Ministry was due in five minutes, and Harry would be lucky to beat him by thirty seconds at most.

"Sorry!" Harry said over his shoulder toward two elderly witches that he'd brushed up against a bit too brusquely, ignoring their looks of disdain.

He'd be getting enough of that expression from the examiner, most likely.

Finally reaching the front door of his shop, he was just about to turn the handle when the door swung open for him.

"You're late, Harry. I was getting worried."

"I know, Dennis, I know. Couldn't be helped. That damn cat wouldn't cooperate with me at all this morning."

The door slammed shut behind him, the sign above it that read Clock Wise: Purveyor of fine clocks and watches since 1693. Proprietor: H. J. Potter swinging on its chains as the bell clanged loudly, reminding Harry that he needed to get the hinge spring fixed before one of the window panes finally gave in and cracked.

"Well, you did name him Fred. What did you expect?" Dennis laughed.

His apprentice was dressed casually in denims and a pullover, but Harry thought there was no point in chastising him for it now, even though he had reminded him the night before to look his best this morning. He wanted to make a good impression on the examiner, and his second in command didn't exactly exude professionalism while wearing trainers.

"Point taken. I'm changing his name to Minerva as soon as I get home," Harry grinned, his mind turning to thoughts of his stern yet likeable former Headmistress.

Harry followed Dennis through the shop, buttoning his suit jacket and straightening his tie, giving an examining once-over to the recently cleaned shelves and displays. Clock Wise was Harry's bread and butter. Seven years prior, he had left his position as a still-wet-behind-the-ears Auror and dropped out of public view following the murder of his wife, Luna. Three years passed before he resurfaced as the apprentice to the old watchmaker, Herman Wise, and six months after that, Wise turned over his shop to Harry and retired.

Known for its intricate and classic watch styles, Clock Wise was also the first clock shop in Britain to introduce what Harry always called 'the Weasley Clock' – clocks with arms that were personalized to an individual family that told the whereabouts of its various members, the kind he had seen for the very first time at the Burrow when he was twelve years old. Harry's accomplishment was converting that same magic into a smaller, more portable form – incorporating it into several of Wise's pocket and wrist watch designs, though due to size limitations it could only be personalized to two people, one each for the hour and minute hands. It was a big seller for newlyweds.

"I'll just put the kettle on, shall I?"

"Perfect, thanks Dennis," Harry said as he went to stand behind the front register, checking that everything was in its proper place. "The examiner should be here any moment; I don't suppose we've got any biscuits or cakes lying around?"

Dennis was over by the small kitchenette that was tucked into a small alcove in the back near the grandfather clock collection. They kept coffee, hot water, and a tea service for customers who sometimes liked to stay and chat. The shop was small, but the loyal customers that had been coming here long before Harry didn't seem to mind that Mr. Wise was gone, and saw Harry as a suitable replacement to listen to their tales of precocious grandchildren and the latest gossip – some of which was about him.

"Sorry, no. Want me to run up the road and grab some?" Dennis offered, counting out tea bags and placing them on the tray.

"Don't bother. He'll probably just assume I'm trying to soften him up, anyway. No amount of cake is going to accomplish that, though," he smiled wryly.

Harry sat in the worn leather chair usually reserved for customers and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm his racing heart. One, two, three four… he counted off the seconds, a trick that Pansy had taught him back when panic attacks used to overwhelm him.

Back when Luna's murder and the subsequent trial of her killer used to be front page headlines.

The sound of the bell over the door interrupted his meditation, however, and he opened his eyes to see a tall, lanky, rather unfriendly looking gentleman make his way around a display case and approach the register. Harry winced as his briefcase smacked against the corner of a cabinet showcasing pocket watches, hearing a few of them fall from their individual display stands.

"May I help you?" Dennis asked cheerfully.

Harry hadn't even heard Dennis come out of the back room, and he turned to look at his assistant as the younger man, tea cup in hand, grinned brightly at whom they both assumed to be the Ministry examiner.

"I am here to see a Mr. Harry James Potter, proprietor of this establishment."

"That would be me, sir," Harry answered, "and you are?"

"Bernard Smythe, Department of Taxation and Audits: Financial Reporting Standards Division."

"Pleased to meet you," Harry held out his hand in greeting and managed a smile, "would you like some tea?"

"Darjeeling?" the man sniffed.

"Plain old PG Tips, I'm afraid," Dennis replied, still grinning.

"I'll pass."

Harry saw Dennis's expression falter for a brief moment as Smythe brushed a few wispy grey strands of hair from his beady blue eyes. What was it about Ministry officials that made them so unpleasant? Was it in the official handbook dictating employee behaviour while on the job?

"Can I take your cloak?"

"No thank you."

Harry shifted, the urge to grab a nearby quill and chew on it – a long-standing nervous habit of his – making his fingers drum against the register countertop of their own volition.

"The office is in the back if you'd prefer to just get started," Harry finally offered when the man showed no sign of…well, anything at all.

Harry didn't have high hopes for the hours ahead.

"I would."

"Right, then, if you'll just follow me," Harry said, deciding to forego the niceties with a man who clearly wasn't going to play nice.

"Dennis, could you just check the cabinet with the new pocket watches for me? I think a few of them fell over," Harry asked, before disappearing behind the heavy curtain that separated the back office from the main store. "And don't forget to put out the open sign at ten o'clock," he added, his head poking out from between the gap before quickly disappearing again.

"Sure thing, boss," Harry heard him say as he directed Smythe to the only chair in the tiny, cramped office, dreading what was sure to be an awkward sixty minutes.

At least, he was hoping it would only be sixty minutes.

"This is atrocious at best."

So much for sugar-coating the situation.

Harry stifled a groan at Smyth's declaration, not that he was expecting anything different. Bookkeeping was Wise's forte, and after that, Wise's secretary Mildred took care of things. When she retired three years prior, however, Harry let that side of the business fall into disarray. He was pants at anything involving numbers to begin with, and since it was common practice for the Ministry to forego the biennial audit when the primary accountant had recently been replaced, he'd been granted a reprieve. Now, however, that reprieve had come back to bite him in the arse, since he hadn't yet found a replacement for Mildred.

Not that he'd really been trying, mind.

"I'm still looking for a bookkeeper, sir."

"You have had ample time, Mr. Potter," Smythe said, clearly not buying Harry's feeble excuse. "Have you placed an advert in the Daily Prophet?"

"Er, not exactly."

"It is a yes or no question, Mr. Potter."

Smythe's tone reminded Harry of Severus Snape. All he needed was the greasy hair and the bat-like cloak, and he'd be right back in fifth year potions class.

Harry blinked.

"I'll take that as a no," the Snape wannabe muttered, and began to put his note back inside his briefcase. Harry refrained from sighing in relief at the first sign that Smythe was leaving, not too keen on earning any more of this man's ire.

"You have six months to get things in order, at which point I or another examiner will return for another audit."

"Six months-"

"You are the proprietor of this business, are you not?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then you are aware of the rules. Any business taking in excess of seven-thousand five-hundred Galleons per annum are subject to biennial audit from the Department of Taxation and Audits: Financial Reporting Standards Division, as per Ministry decree number two-hundred and thirty-seven, section C, subsection nine."

"Right," Harry said, trying not to appear too defeated, "of course. Six months should be fine."

"Get your business in order, Mr. Potter. I will not be penalising you with a fine this time, owing to your service to our people some years back, but I shall not be as generous should I find your records in such a state during our next visit. The Ministry does not look kindly on the possibility of unpaid taxes, as I'm sure you are aware."

"Yes, sir."

He led Smythe back through the curtain and through the shop, thanking him again for his time but extremely glad to see the back of him. He shut the door and exhaled a sigh of relief, untying the knot of his necktie.

He glanced at a nearby grandfather clock. They had been in the back office for sixty-one minutes.

Harry sat opposite Hermione at their usual table in their usual place for lunch – the Kennington Lane café in Vauxhall, which was a short distance from where Hermione worked in the Secret Intelligence Service building. Though known to house the Muggles' secret intelligence headquarters known as MI6, he knew that deep beneath the building there was an elaborate series of hallways, offices, and even a small atrium. The Order of the Phoenix had built a defacto shadow government there during the second war when Albus Dumbledore first suspected that the Ministry had been compromised by Death Eaters in their midst, and was later reopened by Kingsley Shacklebolt after Minister Scrimgeour had been killed for refusing to disclose Harry's whereabouts.

He pushed a generous slice of chocolate cake in her direction and smiled widely.

"Please, Hermione?"

"Why don't you ask Pansy?"

"Because," Harry said, his smile disappearing when he realised she was not going to be bought off with a mere slice of cake – not even chocolate.

"Because she'll scold you for putting it off for so long, that's why."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I'm not sure if I should be pleased that you assumed I wouldn't do the same or not," Hermione said, laughing.

"Don't know why Mildred needed to retire when she did, anyway," Harry grumbled, picking at his half-eaten apple crumble.

"Because she was ninety-six years old."

"A very spry ninety-six, I'll remind you," he added, emphatically pointing his fork in her direction, wondering if she'd notice if he suddenly swiped her chocolate cake for his apple crumble.

"I can't, Harry," Hermione sighed, "I'm off to Vancouver in three weeks for the internship. You know this already."

"You could have things sorted in two," he pleaded.

"I doubt that," she laughed. "Besides, Ron is going to be back in England for a week after that, and we haven't seen each other in ages."

"I'm desperate, Hermione."

"Then do what normal people in your situation would do. Place an advert in the Prophet, put a sign in your window, and find someone with experience who can plow through those boxes of receipts. If you're lucky, they might even teach you a thing or two and you can do it yourself one of these days."

"But I wouldn't trust anyone but you or Mildred, and she already turned me down."

"You asked her to come out of retirement for you?"

"Only temporarily!"

"Harry, you're hopeless, you know that?"

He knew that her mind was made up. If only Ron were here instead of out cavorting with professional Quidditch players. Just because he worked for the Cannons didn't mean he had to spend all his time away with them. He could strategize from home.

"Hopeless and desperate. I could feel that Smythe bloke judging me before he even opened his mouth yesterday. They're ruthless. As if I don't already pay enough in taxes, they want to make sure they get every last knut they can squeeze out of me. I can barely afford to pay Dennis as it is. I was going to pay Mildred out of my own vault if she came back."

When in doubt, pull the guilt card.

"Place the advert, Harry."

Strike two. Hermione was on to him.

"Well I suppose that I'm going to have to, aren't I?" Harry grumbled.

Neither he nor Hermione noticed the stranger sitting directly behind Harry, who had been intently listening in on their conversation, stand and toss a tenner onto the table before walking out of the café and disappearing into the streets of Vauxhall.

"The order for Mrs. Wickham should be finished tomorrow, Harry, only I'm having a spot of trouble with the hairspring. Could you take a look?"

Before Harry could reply, a flurry of pink and grey came bustling through the front door.

"I loathe the rain, Harry, have I mentioned that before?"

Pansy made her way over to the showcase grandfather clock that Harry was polishing to kiss him on the cheek before removing her shimmering grey cloak and tossing it onto the nearby customer chair. Her matching robes were trimmed in pale pink cashmere, a colour she wore faithfully every day.

"Still haven't sold that monstrosity, I see."

"I like this monstrosity."

Harry could hear the rain increase in intensity outside as it began pounding against the windows.

"Well I should hope so, seeing as how it's doomed to be a permanent fixture in this place," she said, before cuffing Dennis gently on the back of the head, "I demand tea, servant boy. I'm parched."

Dennis muttered something rude under his breath but dutifully went over to the small alcove and charmed the kettle to boil.

"Stop tormenting my apprentice."

"He loves it," Pansy smirked.

"It shows."

"Did you hear the news?"

"Hmm?" Harry opened the front of the case on his favourite grandfather to polish the delicate silver hour and minute arms.

"Narcissa Malfoy died."

Harry stopped and turned to see Pansy looking at him in earnest.

"Did she?"

"About eight months ago, apparently. It was public record, of course, but nobody noticed until the estate entered probate last week. And," she started to add, her voice taking on a forced nonchalance tone, "the sole heir up and disappeared two months ago."

"Disappeared? Draco Malfoy?"

"The one and only."

Harry watched her turn and pick up a small cherry wood Devonshire clock.

"Just up and walked away with only the clothes on his back and the contents of a vault that only he held the key to." Pansy set the clock back on the table, turning back toward Harry who pretended not to notice the shine in her eyes. "His mother set it up when he was born, and had been filtering money to it from her Black vault without old Lucius ever being the wiser."

Harry turned his attention back to the grandfather in case Pansy wanted to dab her eyes.

"Why would she do that?"

"Who knows why any of the Malfoys did what they did. I have to give Narcissa credit, though – she took care of her son as best she could, despite the fact that she married that sociopath in the first place. Though I'm not entirely sure it was her choice," she added with a sigh. "You should have seen the way she doted on him when we were at school. Constant letters, boxes of treats at every holiday and birthday. No one knew it, but Draco Malfoy was a mummy's boy through and through. His father? That was all about fear."

Harry put his polishing cloth in his pocket and turned to look at her.

"There was a lot to be afraid of."

"You'll get no argument from me on that point."

Dennis came walking toward them, carrying Pansy's cup, already familiar with how she took it.

"Your tea. May I go now?"

"Thank you, Dennis darling. And no, you may not go. Come and sit next to me and keep me company while Harry has some alone time with his clocks."

Dennis looked put out, but neither Harry nor Pansy missed the blush staining his cheeks. He had been smitten with Pansy since he was a first year at Hogwarts, though he wouldn't admit it even under threat of sudden death. Harry was secretly amused by the little games that Pansy would play with him, once he got over feeling sorry for him, that is, but Harry didn't think he was as half amused by it as Pansy was. She took full advantage of the younger man's crush.

His amusement was interrupted by the bell over the door, announcing the arrival of a customer. He looked up, and there stood a man he had not seen before. As well known as Clock Wise was, it had been around for so long that new customers were a rarity unless they were new to London's wizarding district, and it was just enough off the main road of Diagon Alley that they didn't get many window shoppers, either. Most new customers came in via word of mouth, and Harry always liked knowing who had referred them.

"Hello," Harry greeted him, "may I help you?"

"Hello. I was wondering if I might speak to the owner?"

"That's me, Harry Potter."

Harry held out his hand, but the other man just stood there, staring at it. Just as Harry began to pull it back, firm fingers grabbed hold and held on.

"It's nice to meet you."

Harry waited for the other man to introduce himself, but he wasn't forthcoming. He wasn't sure if he should be offended or worried about the strange behaviour – he looked harmless enough in his unassuming tweed jacket and nicely pressed cotton trousers.

Actually, he was quite nice to look at. Light brown hair that framed his chiseled face nicely, and kind hazel eyes.

Still…there was something…Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something mysterious that he didn't see in the average, everyday stranger.

"Can I help you find something in particular?" Harry offered, hoping to find out the reason for his visit.

The stranger looked down at the small display table to his left, picking up a pocket watch – one of Harry's favourites. The leather backing, unusual in watches of that sort, was buttery soft, and the perfect shade of camel.

"These are beautiful."

"Thank you. Not a lot of people carry them around anymore, but those that do are quite attached to them."

"I have one of my own," the other man said, reaching into his trouser pocket to retrieve it.

He barely opened his hand before Harry asked to see it, always curious about the types of timepieces people preferred. He reckoned that you could tell a bit about a person by the type of watch they carried…simple versus complicated, whimsical versus conservative, modern versus old-fashioned.

"May I?"

The other man nodded and handed it over, and Harry knew immediately by the heavy feel of it that it was no ordinary pocket watch. He looked at the faceplate and didn't bother concealing his surprise.

"The maker is-"

"Muggle, I know," Harry interrupted, enthralled. "Patek Phillipe. But I've never seen this one before. It's…it's stunning. It must have at least twenty complications."

"Complications?"

"It means special features aside from the usual hour, minute, and second display. Like this lunar phase indicator here – that's a complication," Harry said, pointing out the small night sky image just below the number twelve. He reluctantly handed the watch back to its owner, wishing he had an excuse to examine it more closely – especially the mechanisms inside.

"Odd term for a rather useful function."

"I've never seen anything like it, to be honest. Two or three complications are common, even five, but that piece there…it's really remarkable."

"I'm told that it's one of a kind."

If the man thought that he was going to find anything near that caliber at Clock Wise…

"I hate to disappoint, but I could only dream of making a timepiece like that. I'm afraid that I won't have anything like it for you here."

"Oh, I'm not here to purchase anything," the man said, slipping the watch back into his pocket. "I saw your advert in the Daily Prophet."

Harry was surprised for the second time that day and it wasn't even lunchtime. He hadn't had a day this pleasantly exciting in months.

Although he wasn't sure he should count that blackbird incident as pleasant, necessarily…but it certainly did qualify as excitement.

"For a bookkeeper?"

"Right, yes," Harry finally responded, his moment of dumbfounded shock having passed. "Yes, the bookkeeper position. Sorry, I just…I didn't catch your name."

"The name's Ben. Ben Mercier."

"Harry Potter."

"I know," Ben smirked at the unnecessary second introduction.

"Right," answered sheepishly, a bit embarrassed that he'd let a stranger see him get a bit spastic over a watch.

"Have you already filled the position?"

"No, actually the advert just started running today. I'm just a bit surprised to have someone come in about it so soon."

"I'm back in London after a significant time away, and am in need of employment."

"I see," Harry said, walking toward the back of the shop and motioning for Mr. Mercier to follow. "Um, do you have any experience?"

"I managed the family estate for several years, and we dealt heavily in antiquities trading, so I'm familiar with maintaining ledgers."

Harry led him through the curtain and into the back office, gesturing for him to sit in the only available chair. He leaned against the bookcase opposite, hands in his pockets so as not to appear intimidating.

Not that Harry had any hope of even intimidating a fly, let alone a bookkeeper. He rather lost that reputation and aura after he turned in his Auror badge and started playing with clocks instead.

"Well, I've got a bit of a mess to sort through. To be honest, I let everything fall to the wayside when the old bookkeeper retired three years ago. I've got box upon box of unfiled receipts in the back, and haven't filed any tax paperwork with the Ministry in two years."

"Daunting, but not impossible," Mr. Mercier replied without a moment's consideration.

"Are you going to introduce us to your new friend, Harry?" Pansy asked, waltzing through the curtain and draping her arm across his shoulders protectively, giving the newcomer an appraising once over.

"This is Ben Mercier. He's here about the job."

The other man stood and offered his hand. Pansy took it and grinned when he kissed the back of it.

"Oh I see. Well he's got manners, which is more than I can say for the other employee you've got."

"I'm looking for something to start immediately."

"And where are you from, Ben Mercier?"

"Shepton Mallet. Just south of Bristol in Somerset."

"Can't say as I've heard of it?"

"It's just a small market town. And you can call me Ben."

"What brings you to London?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

"Employment, hopefully. And a fresh start."

"And where have you been staying?" Pansy this time, and Harry could tell she was just getting started.

"Pansy, don't interrogate the man."

Dennis came through the curtain carrying a small wooden mallet, looking for something.

"The Leaky Cauldron, but I'm hoping to find something a bit more permanent and private soon."

"Harry's got an unused flat above the shop."

"Dennis-"

"Well it would be handy, wouldn't it? He has no idea what he's getting into with that mess you've got back there. And old man Wise isn't using it anymore. Besides, that way, he'd have easy access to everything in his own workspace while he saves our collective arses, wouldn't he? Where the hell did I put the dapping block?" He groused, rifling through the unorganized stacks of papers on the desktop.

"Dennis, he just walked in the door," Harry apologised for the younger man's candidness. "I'm sorry, this is my soon-to-be-ex apprentice, Dennis Creevey," Harry glared, "and this is my friend Pansy Parkinson."

"I don't work here," she said, as though offended by even the possibility that Ben would assume as much.

"With hands as lovely as yours, I thought not."

"See," Pansy said, admiring her nails, "manners."

Harry just laughed at her, pleased when Ben smiled. Yes, Harry thought, he'll fit in well enough.

"Sorry, would you like some tea or maybe a coffee before I show you what you'll be getting into if you decide to take the job?"

"Tea sounds lovely, thanks."

"Sorry about the ambush earlier. My friends have issues with boundaries sometimes."

"No need to apologise. You're lucky that you have such protective people around you."

"There's protective, and then there's stifling. You haven't even met Ron and Hermione, yet."

Ben tilted his head inquisitively.

"They're my best friends. I've known them since I was eleven. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger? Well, Hermione Weasley now, but…you may have heard of them? They were instrumental in the war."

"None as instrumental as you, though."

Harry was pleased to hear not even the slightest bit of reverence in the matter-of-fact statement.

"Well, with me it was just luck – both good and bad – but Ron and Hermione, they were there out of sheer determination. People like them, they were the real heroes. I was just incidental."

"I'm sure there are many who would say otherwise."

"Yes, well…"

"You weren't at Hogwarts, I take it?"

Harry had dragged in the customer chair from the shop so that they could both sit and talk. It barely fit, and their knees were touching, but Ben didn't seem to mind. Harry wasn't sure if this was an actual interview anymore, or just two strangers getting to know each other.

He felt…surprisingly at ease with this man, and that was uncommon for Harry who usually had his guard up around everyone new by default.

"No, I went to Beauxbatons Academy."

"Oh, did you know Fleur and Gabrielle Delacour? Fleur is married to Ron's older brother, Bill."

"I know of her."

Harry set his cup on the shelf of the bookcase behind him, and gestured for Ben's, setting it down as well.

"So, about the position-

"I am still interested."

"Excellent. I mean, that's great," Harry said happily. "It's yours if you want it."

"I do."

"Must be my lucky day."

Ben smiled back, and Harry felt elated.

"Might I see the flat?"

"Really?"

Third surprise today, Harry thought to himself. Must be a record.

"Unless it isn't available?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, to be honest."

"Your apprentice was right, it would be convenient, especially considering the number of boxes to go through," Ben reasoned, leaning forward earnestly. "It would save considerable time, not having to repack them every day."

"Can't argue with you there."

"I need every square inch as clean as you can get it, Kreacher. Can you manage it by this coming Saturday?"

"Yes, Master."

Harry watched his curmudgeon of a house elf slink away through the door that led to the bedroom that, three days from now, would be occupied by his new bookkeeper, Ben Mercier. It was a nice flat, he had to admit. Spacious and well lit with several windows letting in natural light. Old man Wise had a few of them charmed to show a pastoral countryside, complete with grazing sheep, rather than the oft busy streets of Diagon Alley below. It was laid out almost like a loft, with the only other room being the bedroom and en suite bathroom. From the kitchen, you could see over into the living area, which was sparsely furnished – Harry made note to get some things delivered – and then a separate sitting area with a fireplace, just below a large skylight, perfect for stargazing if one was so inclined.

He ran his finger across the mantle, grimacing at the thick layer of dust that came with it. He was already making a mental list of items he'd need to purchase to make the flat habitable. Bed linens, towels, a new set of cookware and dishes probably wouldn't hurt…or maybe I should let Ben pick all that out for himself since he'd be the one living here, not me.

"You up here, Harry?"

His thoughts were interrupted by Pansy as she made her way up the narrow staircase, her high heeled boots echoing off the wood which, Harry made a mental note, would need to be polished – as would the two doors at either end. The door at the bottom of the stairs went directly into the main shop, though situated in such a way that a random customer wouldn't let curiosity get the best of them, and the door at the top of the stairs put you right in the middle of the kitchen area. Both had key locks, but Harry had no idea where those keys were, and hoped that Ben wouldn't mind using locking charms instead.

"Come on up. I'm just seeing what all needs done before Ben moves in."

"He's quite fit, isn't he?"

"Nose down, Pans. Besides, you've got Dennis to torment."

"Oh please, that boy downstairs wouldn't know what to do with a woman like me."

"First off, he's only four years younger than you and hardly a boy at twenty-five, and secondly, I'm sure it would be a real hardship showing him exactly what he should do with a woman like you."

Pansy's laugh echoed around the mostly empty flat, and Harry smiled. He loved her laugh.

"Oh come on, Harry, even a recluse like yourself takes notice of these things."

"I'm not a recluse."

"A bit of one, and excellent at attempting to change the subject." Pansy sidled up beside him, nudging him gently with her elbow. "Go on, what's he like? You were interviewing him for hours yesterday."

"It was barely one hour, and he's just like any other wizard out there looking for a job."

"Well if you're not going to have a crack at it, maybe I will. Though, I've never been one to go for the bookish sort."

"And I am?"

"You do count Granger among your best of friends, don't you?"

Pansy continued to follow him around the flat as Harry made mental note of anything needed fixing, like the crack in the window pane above the kitchen sink.

"Doesn't mean that I want to date her."

"Did you really never have a go with her, not even once?"

"Hermione? No way. Ron would have killed me."

"But if Weasley weren't an issue?"

"Still no. She's like my sister, Pans."

He opened the mirrored cabinet on the wall of the bathroom, wiping away a cobweb with his finger.

"A very pretty sister, though. She filled out nicely."

"Thinking of leaping to the other side of the fence?"

"Why, is there room over there?"

Harry just laughed. Pansy didn't care one whit that Harry played both teams, as it were, back when he used to get up to that sort of thing, but she did like to make the occasional playful comment about it.

"Women know their competition. That doesn't mean we want to snog it."

"Me and Hermione – and Ron, don't give me that look – were all strictly platonic. Despite you and your Slytherin cronies having tried to convince the rest of Hogwarts otherwise."

"That was mostly Draco and his minions. I only played along because I was trying to get into his pants."

She followed Harry out the door and into the narrow, dark stairwell – another thing that he needed to get…sconces.

"I would have never guessed."

"Oh, we fooled around a bit at first, but one look at my breasts and the poor boy gave it up as a lost cause. I was surprised that he was able to keep it secret as long as he did, even with my help."

"Hmm." Harry was only half paying attention to her now, going into the back office and looking for a spare piece of parchment on which to start a list.

"You're lucky that you had Luna, Harry."

That startled him enough to make him stop writing and look up at her.

"I know."

Pansy examined her nails as she leaned against the edge of his desk. Harry put his pencil down and sat back in the chair, watching her.

"What made you think of her?"

"You, of course."

"Meaning?"

"I wouldn't be standing here in this decrepit office right now if it weren't for her. Not that I'm ungrateful, mind, I know that I owe you a debt of gratitude and then some for what you've done for me," she said, shifting her focus to the unused ledgers in the bookcase. "Or rather, what your reputation and good-standing has done for me."

Harry knew her well enough by now to know when she was approaching one of her moods – this one was made up of equal parts guilt and the need to mother him…a dangerous combination in someone like her.

"Pansy-"

"And as one of Luna's best friends, and someone who knew her probably as well as you did, I think that it's time that you...got a life."

"Excuse me?" he asked, not hiding his incredulity at her pronouncement.

"And seeing as how Luna had absolutely no issues with your dalliances with the same sex, prior to your courtship, of course," Pansy went on, "there's no reason for you to limit yourself now, either, and I happen to think that Ben Mercier is very fit indeed. And as queer as a copper galleon to boot."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"No man kisses hands like these without his blood pressure rising, and he was as cool as a cucumber in winter. He did, however, pay special attention to you and those lovely green eyes of yours."

"Are you quite finished?" He shook his head in disbelief, picking up his pencil and re-starting his list of things to fix in the upstairs flat.

"Oh don't be like that, Harry."

"You've spent barely one hour with this Mercier fellow."

"So did you, and yet he walked out of here with a job and a new place to live."

"Your point being?"

"Clearly we're both excellent judges of character."

Harry looked up at her, daring her to voice the obvious.

"Well, the exception being the entirety of my Hogwarts years, of course."

"Of course," he grinned.

"You should do something with your life, Harry." She sat on the corner of his desk, deliberately obscuring the list he was working on. "Get out of this shop every once in a while, see the world. Meet someone – man, woman, I don't care – and…and go on a date or whatever it is you monogamous types do. After everything that you've been through, you deserve a lengthy holiday at the very least."

"I'm content the way things are."

"What about that cruise that you and Luna were going to take before-"

His patience wearing thin, he ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. Pansy took the hint, standing up and walking toward the curtained divider.

"She'd want you to be happy, Harry," she said, looking at him fondly.

"I have a lot of work to do."

His tone was gentle, but brooked no argument. He knew that she meant well, and was glad to see her smile before walking through the curtain, assuring him that there were no bruised feelings between them.

"You don't know a thing about debits and credits, do you? Cash flows? Retained earnings?"

"I know what goes in and what comes out."

"I don't know how you've managed to stay in business," Ben said bemusedly. "You don't need to keep funneling cash into the shop using your own personal vault, Potter."

"It's Harry, and what else am I supposed to do when there's not enough money at the end of the quarter?"

"Look, you should be keeping separate accounts within the general ledger for specific purposes." Ben stood and reached for a couple of the ledger books from the bookcase. "Like this, see – payroll, equipment, accounts receivable…that's your customer payments for items purchased…and so on." He had laid one of the books open on the desk, leaning over Harry to point out the various columns for deposits, withdrawals, and transfers. "If you need to, you can move money within this system of accounts, but you need to stop making personal withdrawals from your personal vault." Ben pulled up the other chair that Harry had dragged in earlier to place next to his boss and sat down. "While I'm sure you intend to replace it, I suspect that you don't. You're going to end up with nothing in ten years time at the rate you're going."

"Mr. Wise entrusted his shop to me, I'm not just going to let it go under when I have the means to keep it open."

"The issue is that you have no idea what you really bring in, profit wise, because you don't keep track."

"Well that's what I have you here for," Harry smiled widely.

Ben threw his head back and laughed – the first real laugh Harry had heard from him. He liked it.

"Your Mr. Creevey was right, you are a lost cause."

Harry shrugged, still grinning. He stood to stretch his legs, needing to move them after having been sitting for the past several hours.

"Let's take a break. I'm starving," he said. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Excellent. I'm craving the chicken and pesto at Prêt. You mind heading into Muggle London at all? There's a few things that I need to pick up."

Ben looked at him blankly.

"Prêt a Manger? The sandwich shop on nearly every corner," Harry laughed, "At least it seems that way."

"I don't spend much time in Muggle London."

"No mind, you'll find something you like. Come on, my treat." Harry opened the curtain for Ben, putting an arm out at the last minute to stop him as he approached. "Oh, but you'll need to change out of those robes. Have you got anything more like what you wore that first day?"

"I think so," Ben grinned in reply.

"I'll wait for you down here, then."

The man known as Ben Mercier watched Harry walk away and over to a customer. He opened the main door that led to the stairwell going up to his flat and shut the door behind him. Small sconces with ever-burning candles lit the darkness as he took each stair. He continued into the flat and through the living area, then the bedroom and into the en suite. Pondering the reflection in the mirror, the face staring back at him feeling less and less like a stranger's and more like his own with each passing day, he pulled his wand from where he kept it concealed in his sleeve – nine and a quarter inches, willow and unicorn hair – and muttered the incantation that ended his glamour.

Hazel eyes turned to grey, soft brown hair lightened to blond, jaw line and nose sharpened and lengthened as the oh so familiar visage reappeared, staring back at him like an old friend.

"Hello again, Draco Scorpius Malfoy."

The debts that we owe the Potter boy cannot be numbered, for what we took from him cannot be measured.

His mother’s words echoed in his head as Draco had stood across the street from the now familiar shop, hidden in the shadows so as not to be disturbed. He would not have been recognized were he in plain view, however, since the face he wore was not his own. The transformation from Draco Malfoy into Ben Mercier was now routine, having finally decided on this current persona to make the acquaintance of one Harry Potter, Boy Wonder and Saviour of the Wizarding World turned Social Recluse and All Around Enigma.

Draco supposed that the very public murder of one’s wife would do that to even the most stout-hearted men.

He had been following Potter for several months, seven to be exact, and Draco felt that he knew the former bane of his existence as well if not better than he knew himself. Potter was a creature of habit, and a rather boring one at that in Draco’s opinion. He rarely went anywhere aside from the shop which he acquired from old man Wise, and even his closest friends were hard pressed to lure him from the small, rather plain cottage just outside Old Windsor in Berkshire that the ex-Auror called home.

Potter liked tandoori takeaway, but not as much as he liked a greasy fish or three from the local chippie on St Lukes Road. He did most of his shopping at the Co-Op but would occasionally splurge on fairly decent wines at Lyndwood’s. He always gave the newsagent outside the patisserie a generous tip when he went and indulged his sweet tooth on Sunday mornings (his day off), and preferred pints of London Pride on tap at The Fox and Castle pub when he and Ron would fail miserably at Muggle trivia on quiz nights.

The cat that Potter had recently acquired shortly after Malfoy began watching him, a rather mangy looking calico stray, at first seemed to be a constant source of frustration for his chosen human – overturning flower pots, pawing at the door for no apparent reason (Potter would open the door and the cat would just sit there at the threshold and look at him, as though waiting for an engraved invitation to come inside), and making a nuisance of itself whenever a bird dared to fly within the vicinity of Potter’s many feeding perches. Once Potter made peace with the animal and gave it a name, the cat seemed to settle but still liked the sort of solitude that only the great outdoors could provide.

With the way that the cat would stare at him sometimes, as though sensing someone else’s magic that wasn’t Potter’s, Draco would bet money on the cat being a familiar.

Draco chose a rather non-descript persona to adopt after having used dozens around the man already. He followed Potter nearly everywhere, constantly changing faces, body shape, even skin colour. He had a biweekly standing lunch date with Hermione Granger, now Weasley, at a café local to where she worked. Up until four months ago, Ron usually joined them, but apparently his employment with the Chudley Cannons had him out of town for months at a time. Draco had attended their lunches faithfully for the past six months, always wearing a different face, and always making sure to sit near enough to the pair to hear their conversation.

It was once such conversation that provided Draco with the opening into Potter’s life that he needed – a way in which to ingratiate himself into the other man’s life in order to start repaying the debts that his mother had pleaded with him to settle. His plan was simple, and not so much a plan as it was an entire re-shaping of his life. Draco Malfoy had no one left to live for – his mother was dead, and his father nothing more than a nattering madman occupying a cell in Azkaban, deservedly so. He'd spent his entire life being unashamedly selfish and self-centered, up until that day in Malfoy Manor when he deliberately lied about knowing Harry's identity when Greyback dragged him and the rest of the trio into the drawing room.

He could still remember Potter's disfigured face, swollen to the size of a Quaffle, but knowing without a doubt that it was in fact The Boy Who Lived.

Draco wasn’t sure how he could ever clear away the sorrow that clung to Harry after Lucius Malfoy murdered Luna Lovegood, her last breaths taken while cradled in Harry’s arms in the very home they bought to live out the rest of their lives together, but Draco had promised his mother, and even in death he would not fail her.

Enter Ben Mercier. He wasn’t all that different from Draco Malfoy. His father, great bastard that he was, always taught him that when crafting deceit, stick as close to the truth as possible. Lies are easily forgotten, but the truth is always remembered. Ben was good with finances, came from old money (though he didn’t possess much of it now), didn’t require a lot of social interaction to be content, and was exceptional at charms and potions.

He had non-descript brown hair, but not too dark, and unremarkable hazel eyes. His nose was a bit shorter, his bone structure less sharp and defined – different enough to look like someone else, but subtle enough that Draco wasn’t quite so shocked when he saw his reflection in the mirror or passing a storefront window. Were someone to study his face long enough, they may even wonder if he was a distant cousin to the Malfoys of Wiltshire. His body was wholly his own, but without the Malfoy family crest adorning every one-of-a-kind, elegant robe, and minus the haughty posture once used to remind others of his lineage, he was just any other Englishman.

As far as Harry Potter was concerned, Draco Malfoy hadn’t seen him since the day that Draco had been officially forgiven of his crimes against wizarding kind, simply because their saviour had asked for it to be so. Severe emotional distress, they had said, brought on by the lethal threat against his parents. And it was as simple as that – Draco Malfoy had been pardoned and free to walk out of the courtroom with his mother, who was also set free due to her actions in the forest that fateful day.

Lucius Malfoy was the only one who did not escape Potter’s wrath, and four years later, Lucius took his revenge by taking away what Harry loved most – his wife.

Draco was now going to live his life entirely for someone else – the one person who gave him the precious, though far too few, years with his mother, unburdened by her husband's tyranny. It wasn't until Lucius was truly gone that Draco realised how free she was – how free they both were. And now that his mother had left him…

He did as she asked, and tracked Potter down. Having largely disappeared from the papers after his father had been found guilty of orchestrating Luna's murder and sentenced to life in Azkaban (on top of the seventy years he'd already been given, as though he would outlive that), Draco hadn't a clue what his former classmate had done with his life since leaving the Ministry's Auror corps right after the murder trial.

What he found was nothing like he expected – Potter was, for the most part, a loner. He still kept up with his two sidekicks, apparently, who had done the predictable and married each other. His shock at seeing Pansy Parkinson walk into Potter's back garden late one evening when Draco was watching him scatter dried fruits and nuts at the base of a large oak tree still makes him shake his head in disbelief. For Potter to have, by all appearances, not only forgiven her but befriended her after she wanted to offer him on a silver platter to the Dark Lord was, in Draco's honest estimation, unfuckingbelievable.

This wasn't how The Boy Who Lived Twice was supposed to end up. It defied everything that Draco knew to be true. When he was fifteen, he would have danced a jig at the thought of Potter losing almost everything and ending up pathetically alone, but now…knowing what he knows…

Draco may have had nothing or no one to live for anymore, but Potter did, and he was going to help him find out what it was and fulfill his mother's last wishes in the process.

"Two chicken and pesto, two packets of salt crisps, two ginger beers and…a choc bar. Actually, I’m going to take two choc bars, please."

Harry handed his money to the young girl behind the register, and looked over at Ben sitting by the window while he waited for his change. Pansy was right, he was nice enough to look at, but he was also his employee. The idea wasn’t even worth entertaining, if Harry had such ideas. Which he didn’t.

"Sir?"

"Oh, sorry, bit distracted, I suppose. Thanks."

Harry carried their lunches over to the table that Draco had chosen by the storefront window. He smiled. Harry always liked sitting by the window as well – people watching was a favourite pastime when he actually had the time.

"I hope you aren’t a vegetarian."

"Not even a little bit."

"Good," Harry said, going straight for the choc bar.

"Do you always eat dessert first?"

"Is there a law against it?" he grinned.

He'd been doing that a lot lately. Grinning. And smiling.

"I suppose not," Ben shrugged his shoulders, grabbing his own choc bar.

"You accountant types and your rules."

"You could do with some rules in your shop."

"Such as? Ledgers aside, that is."

"Stop doing so much work for free."

"I have loyal customers," Harry replied, twisting the top off his ginger beer, and reaching across the table to do the same for Ben.

He missed the amused look directed at him from across the table.

"Loyal, I suspect, because you don’t charge for half of what you do for them."

"Only the ones that I know don’t have a lot to spare," Harry said honestly before taking a bite of his sandwich.

"Potter-"

"You call me that one more time and you’re fired."

"Harry," Ben said pointedly and smirked, "time is money, and right now you’ve got too much of one and not enough of the other, and not to your benefit."

Harry watched as Ben tore open the bag of crisps and sniffed the contents, then tasting one experimentally as though afraid it might bring about his imminent demise.

He caught the bemused look on Harry's face.

"Making sure there's no vinegar. I hate vinegar."

"Me, too."

Harry suddenly felt overly warm, but chalked it up to the sun shining through the window.

"Enough business talk," he declared after taking the last bite of his chicken and pesto, then tearing open his own bag of crisps. "You’ve been with me nearly three weeks now, and I’ve been dying to ask how you happened upon that glorious pocket watch."

Ben took a moment to clear any crumbs from his mouth with one of the flimsy paper napkins, then took a long pull from the bottle of ginger beer.

"As I said, it was a gift."

Harry looked at him expectantly.

"From my mother. It originally belonged to my father. It was a gift from her shortly after I was born."

"Was he a Muggle-born?"

"No," Ben couldn’t help but laugh at the look that would have crossed Lucius's face if he had heard that question.

"But the watchmaker is Muggle, so I assumed-"

"Patek Phillipe a Muggle? Are you mad?"

"…are you serious? He was a wizard?" Harry asked incredulously.

"As much as you and I, to be sure. There was a reason why his timepieces were so sought after – no mere Muggle could come up with creations such as this." He patted the trouser pocket where Harry assumed the coveted object was hiding.

"I…didn't know."

Ben grinned at the look on Harry's face and reached into his pocket, sliding the timepiece across the table and into eager hands, then swiping the last of Harry's choc bar, deciding it was a fair trade – assuming Harry even noticed, enthralled as he was with the small object currently being cradled in his palm. He stifled a laugh – it was like watching a young boy with his first broomstick.

"Your mum must really trust you to hand over a piece like this."

"She left it to me when she died."

Harry's exuberance deflated a bit as he looked Ben in the eye. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he said softly.

"That's the second time you've said that in less than a minute's time," Ben smirked good-naturedly to lighten the suddenly heavy mood.

"Sorry."

Ben laughed, pointing his bottle at Harry in a 'see I told you so' gesture, and Harry couldn't help laughing at himself, either.

"So why Beauxbatons and not Hogwarts?"

"My parents spent a lot of time in France when I was young, and my father in particular wanted me to have the benefit of a multi-lingual education."

"It must have been hard, though, being in a country where you didn't know the language at first."

Harry was still holding the pocket watch, and Draco watched as his thumb caressed the cover slowly.

"I did, actually. I had a tutor when I was small that taught me French at the same time I was learning my ABC's."

"I'd love to be able to speak another language."

"Then learn one."

"I'm afraid I don't have the patience for that sort of thing now." Harry sighed and looked out the window. "Actually, I wouldn't have had the patience when I was younger, either, come to think of it."

He fiddled with the wrapper from his choc bar as the unspoken hung between them. Who cared about learning French when I was just trying to stay alive for one more year?

"What about your father?" he asked Ben.

"We're no longer in contact."

"Do you miss him?"

Ben looked down at the table, his lips pursed, unsure how to answer.

"Sorry, that was rude."

Harry extended his hand with the watch, their fingers brushing as Ben took it from him.

"Sometimes I do. I miss more the idea of him than anything else. Growing up, I had an image of him in my head that didn't exactly mesh with reality," he finally answered, smiling tightly.

"We should get going. I still need to pick up a few things for the shop. You're welcome to join me."

Ben could tell that Harry felt genuinely sorry about bringing up the subject of Ben's father. If he only knew.

"I should probably get back to those ledgers."

"Yeah. Of course."

They both stood, gathering up empty sandwich containers and plastic wrappers, depositing them in the rubbish bin before walking out the door and onto the busy sidewalk.

"Do you remember the way back to the Apparition point?"

"I think I can manage it," Ben said, smiling genuinely now just for Harry's benefit.

And it seemed to work as Harry's face brightened noticeably.

"Well…I'll see you back at the shop later, then?"

"I suspect you will. I'll be the one buried beneath the pile of barely legible receipts. Written in pencil."

Harry laughed out loud, remembering the other man's grimace when he first saw Harry using a common Muggle pencil instead of a quill to mark customer receipts. Harry started to button up his jacket, a cool April breeze reminding him that winter had barely left and wasn't too eager to leave the city just yet. As he did so, an updraft caught the edge of his lightweight scarf and, were it not for the quick hands of his companion, would have been halfway up Victoria Street in a moment's time.

"Thanks."

"It's a very nice scarf. Be a shame to lose it."

Ben stepped closer, taking the dark material between his fingers gingerly, feeling its silky softness before tying it into a loose knot around Harry's neck.

When their eyes locked as Harry thanked him, again, he wondered just how tight Ben had tied that knot, because he suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Hermione got it for me when…"

But Harry didn't finish, because he just realised what day it was. The third of April. Tomorrow, it will have been seven years since Luna died, and all of Harry's plans for the future along with her. The scarf around his neck was given to him by Hermione on the day of her funeral. He can still remember her wanting to make sure he was warm enough, as though Harry cared about a slight chill when he was about to put Luna six feet into the ground.

A sudden wave of sorrow sliced through him, and it must have shown on his face.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I…I'm fine."

"You look as though you've just seen a ghost."

He saw pity in Ben's face, and wanted to make it go away.

"I'd just…forgotten something. It's nothing."

"If you're sure…"

"I've got to get going before Mr. Nelson closes up for the day. He's only open until three o'clock. I'll…I'll see you back at the shop."

Ben watched him walk away, and found himself smiling ever so slightly when Harry reached the corner, turned, and gave him a small wave goodbye.

Harry decided to walk for a bit after acquiring the necessary items from Simon Nelson, the elderly Squib that he bought most of his Muggle watch making and repair tools from when something needed replacing. Simon was one of the kindest, most gentle men that Harry had ever come across, and never once had Harry heard him complain about his lack of magic. Instead, Simon made the best of his lot in life, working with Muggles and wizard kind alike.

New dapping block and calliper tucked into his jacket pocket, Harry walked along Vauxhall Bridge Road, barely paying attention to his surroundings.

I almost forgot. How could I forget?

In the seven years since Luna's death, Harry never forgot the morbid anniversary. Indeed, the entire two weeks leading up to the date usually found him in a constant state of quiet sulking – granted, it was an improvement from the first two years when it was not so much sulking as full on rage at everyone and everything, until Ron would get him drunk enough that he passed out and woke up eighteen hours later. On the third year, Harry had walked into Clock Wise and asked for a job, having seen the sign posted in the window for an apprentice horologist.

For those who didn't know who Harry had become in the years after his wife's murder, it would have seemed a strange occupation. But those that did know Harry were none too surprised. He'd become fixated on time, timing everything down to the last minute. He obsessed over those lost moments and spare seconds that could effectively change the entire course of a person's life as it had his own. His entire history was made of such moments…being at the right place at the right time, and vice versa.

Hearing Snape threaten Professor Quirrell during his first year at Hogwarts, which led him down the trap door and to his first confrontation with the monster that killed his parents…

Managing to get a few steps ahead of Ron down in the Chamber of Secrets, so that when the ceiling started to cave in, Harry was separated and the only one to face the basilisk and the spirit of Tom Riddle…

His third year, altering time itself with Hermione to free his godfather, and in fourth year, touching the Triwizard Cup at the same moment as Cedric Diggory, leading the other boy to his death…

The single moment that occupied Harry's thoughts the most, however, was that moment on April 5th, so many years ago, when an extra few minutes spent chatting with Hinkleby in the hallway of the Ministry when he had promised Luna that he would be home promptly at five o'clock to shower and get ready for their dinner reservations at Hélène Darroze at the Connaught in Mayfair, London to celebrate her birthday. That extra moment cost her her life, because if he had been home when he promised, he would have seen the package being delivered with a note that, despite its signature, was not from him, and he would have asked her not to open it.

But he was late, and she did open it, and the brooch that lay inside, sparkling and seemingly harmless, a supposed birthday surprise from her tardy husband, bore a curse so powerful that Harry had only seconds with her before she died in his arms.

He can still remember the look of awareness in her eyes as she gazed at him in those final moments, blood pooling in the corner of her mouth. "It'll be okay, Harry," she said in her usual, almost sing-song voice, and then she was gone.

It was Pansy who told him, as he sat on the floor of the hallway at St Mungo's after the Healer told him that there was nothing they could do, of the unborn child inside her. "She was going to tell you tonight. I'm so sorry, Harry." He couldn't cry, then. Not for Luna, and not for the child that would never know love; never knew how much he or she was wanted. The tears didn't come until much later.

Having forgotten, however briefly, about the anniversary of her death brought on a fresh but familiar flash of guilt that Harry quickly smothered. The dealings at his shop were apparently more of a distraction than he thought, what with the finances to get sorted and adjusting to the new, but not unwelcome, presence of Ben Mercier in his daily routine.

Ben…still a bit of a mystery, really.

He was a quiet sort, but when he did speak, you knew that he meant exactly what he said. Pansy constantly bombarded him with questions whenever she was around, but even she couldn't penetrate his evasiveness when he didn't want to divulge something in particular. And Dennis seemed to rather admire the way that Ben took control of situations when called for. It had only been days shy of a month, but already it felt as though Ben had worked at Clock Wise for years, so easy and familiar was their banter.

Harry rather thought that if Ben had gone to Hogwarts, they would have been friends.

Harry realised that he'd long since passed the turn that would have led him to a Ministry designated Apparition point, the next one being half a mile away, and decided to brave the Tube instead. He took Muggle transport often enough to stay familiar with the lines, and made his way into the Victoria Street station to purchase a ticket. He had just enough Muggle change from lunch with Ben to get him to where he needed to go, and found himself smiling at the memory of his all too proper bookkeeper reaching for the choc bar after Harry did so first, as though it never occurred to the other man that yes, you could have dessert first if you felt so inclined.

"You're only rooting for the Harpies because of Ginny," Dennis said accusingly through a mouthful of crumble.

"I'm rooting for the Harpies because they're a solid team, Dennis, and don't you have Mrs. Dolittle's watch to repair?"

"It's ten minutes to closing! I'm not starting on that at this hour." He brushed several crumbs onto the floor. "Oi, Ben, who's your favourite to win?"

"I'm a Falcons man myself, but I'd place my money on Holyhead as well."

Ben was hunched over a sizeable box full of old tax papers. Luckily, it was only five years worth, since the Ministry didn't implement taxes on the public until then. Rebuilding after the war was so costly that they had to come up with extra funds somehow, so they took a nod from the Muggles and came up with a tax system of their own. The monies from estates that had been confiscated from Death Eaters without families barely made a dent, and outcry from the public about including those with families quickly put a stop to that brand of prejudice – after all, just because the brother was involved didn't meant that the sister was, so why should she be punished for his poor choices?

Eventually they taxed everyone making over a certain amount per annum, but that threshold kept getting lower and lower, and now it included Harry. He considered himself lucky that the Ministry hadn't decided to tax inheritances. Yet.

"Bloody barmy, the both of you. Those Harpies are going to get well trounced by Puddlemere, you'll see."

Harry and Ben traded amused grins, Dennis's fanatical following of Puddlemere United having been well established long ago - a fact which Harry shared with the newest member of their working crew in his first week of employment.

Ben fit in extremely well, but still remained a bit of an enigma to Harry. He apparently had no family to speak of, aside from his father from whom he seemed gladly estranged, and he had yet to receive any letters from friends that he'd left behind in Shepton Mallet. The most curious thing about him was that he went out every Sunday, usually late in the morning, and wouldn't return until dark. Harry never asked where he went, and Ben never offered an explanation.

Harry enjoyed their easy camaraderie as they slowly got to know one another's work habits and quirks, like Ben's apparent need for what he called 'a proper scone' with clotted cream and blackberry preserves every Monday morning 'to start the week' and the way he'd turn his nose up slightly every time he noticed Harry chewing on the end of a perfectly good quill.

Ben had started doing the majority of his work upstairs in his rented flat, primarily due to the need for a wide open space on which to start organizing years of receipts, bank statements, and other assorted financial papers. But once everything was sorted enough to be filed in something other than just a load of old boxes that had already seen better days, Ben had found an unused cabinet that belonged to Mr. Wise in an upstairs closet not too long after he'd taken over the flat, and he and Harry eventually moved it downstairs into the back office and turned it into a makeshift filing cabinet.

That led to Harry eventually expanding the back office to include a second desk for Ben, and found himself spending more and more time in the back with his bookkeeper while Dennis dealt with the customers in the shop out front. Ben spent most of his time doing what he needed to do in order to both get things ready for the upcoming audit in August, and also implementing a system that would be easily maintained going forward. Harry often asked questions, but Ben never seemed bothered by the frequent interruptions, and actually seemed to enjoy teaching Harry how to manage the financial side of a business that was more profitable than Harry had assumed, now that everything was laid out before him.

And Harry didn't mind so much when, while sitting at his desk, Ben would come up behind him and lean over Harry's shoulder to share an article he'd seen in the Prophet or guide Harry through missteps as he started to take over the daily entries in the new ledger system.

Ben smelled quite nice, actually, so the close proximity in the overcrowded office wasn't an issue in the slightest.

Pansy mentioned to him in an off-the-cuff remark one day that Harry could have made the office much bigger, and wasn't it interesting that he hadn't?

One of the things that Harry had appreciated about Luna when they first started dating was her instant acceptance of the fact that he wasn't strictly straight. Nor was he strictly not straight, either. After having briefly resumed his relationship with Ginny Weasley after the war, he confessed to her one night that yes, he did sometimes look at other men and want to touch them in more than friendly ways. She had, almost immediately, starting watching where his eyes went when out with their circle of friends, particularly where her brothers were concerned. That Harry hadn't made the attempt to consummate their relationship had seemed, to her, proof positive that Harry was as bent as a broken wand, and she eventually left him, leaving Harry equal parts dumbfounded and angry at her narrow-minded view of what he thought was perfectly normal curiosity.

A few clumsy but wholly satisfying and discreet fumblings with three of his fellow trainees at Auror camp – including Zacharias Smith, no less – partly confirmed his ex-girlfriend's declarations that Harry was bent and probably more than a little bit, but his growing attraction to Luna Lovegood meant that he wasn't quite as bent as Ginny would have him believe.

His relationship with Luna was, to Harry, a complete surprise. She never failed to surprise him, had done so ever since he knew her back at Hogwarts, but after the war she had lost some of her awkwardness and, even though she was very much always her own person, had truly come into her own as a formidable witch and permanent fixture in Harry's social circle. Nights out at the pub with the eight of them eventually led to nights out with just the two of them.

Luna was working at a children's home in London as part of a new liaison program implemented by Minister Shacklebolt to locate Muggle-born witches and wizards that didn't have the benefit of a support system that parents provide, so that when they did eventually get their Hogwarts letters, they would have someone to turn to for guidance without feeling confused and afraid. They couldn't risk another Tom Riddle in their world.

Harry began stopping by the home with takeaway for lunch, or a coffee in late afternoon, sharing stories about the day's training mishaps and other nonsensical trivialities. He felt completely and utterly at ease with this woman whom he'd known since she was a strange, lonesome girl, searching for her stolen shoes amongst the halls of Hogwarts, and so when he leaned over one day and gave her a decidedly more-than-friendly kiss, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

Luna had already known of Harry's dalliances with other men, and only remarked that something as powerful as attraction wasn't bound by silly rules like gender. 'You want who you want, and why should you let a silly thing like chromosomes get in the way of that?' Ginny was furious when word got round to her that Harry and Luna were moving in together, and had even tried to warn Luna that she would never be enough, but was silenced rather spectacularly when Luna explained, in rather explicit detail, the many ways in which she and Harry were enough for each other, and Harry didn't hear from Ginny for a solid four months after that.

And he laughed at the image of that conversation for years afterward.

He and Ginny had repaired their friendship before Luna died, but her constant touring with the Holyhead Harpies meant that they weren't as close as they were back in their Hogwarts days. Now he only saw her on holidays and the occasional birthday at the Burrow, but he kept up with her games on the wireless and cheered her on.

"Haha! What did I tell you sorry sods!" Dennis stood, pumping his fist into the air. "Puddlemere is again victorious!"

"Careful, Creevey, we don't want you bursting a vein," Ben smirked at him.

"You're just jealous. All right if I go celebrate with the lads down the pub, Harry?"

"Go on, but don't come in here in the morning without taking a hangover potion first!" he called after him.

"I feel like a drink myself, actually," Harry added when he heard the bell over the doorway, signaling Dennis's exit.

Ben put down his quill and rubbed the back of his neck, and Harry tried not to stare at the long, smooth expanse of skin, muscles made visible with the slightest turn of his head. Harry took a deep breath and looked away.

"I've a bottle of Ogden's in the fridge upstairs."

"You drink it cold?" Harry found his voice and asked.

"Fire and ice is a lovely combination, especially when combined with alcohol."

Harry followed Ben into the stairwell. He took in a deep breath, noticing that now familiar scent that lingered whenever Ben was around – like warm sandalwood and fresh air after a long rainstorm. Ben opened the door into the flat and Harry suddenly realised that he hadn't been up here in months, having considered it off limits as Ben's personal space once he'd moved in his things back in March. It was clean, but not obsessively so, and looked surprisingly cozy. Ben had changed most of the décor to soft greys and warm neutrals, with occasional splashes of colour here and there – dark greens and blues and the occasional red, depending on the space. Harry was glad to have another glimpse at what made Ben tick. He had so many questions still, but Ben seemed more of a private sort, and Harry didn't want to pry.

"One finger or two?" Ben asked, taking two short glasses from the cupboard over the sink.

"May as well make it two. We don’t have to be up early tomorrow."

Harry moved to sit on the sofa and propped his feet up on the pale leather-bound ottoman directly opposite after Ben did the same.

"I haven't drunk this stuff in…years."

"I indulge occasionally," Ben said, taking a sip and obviously relishing the burn.

"I used to over-indulge after Luna- well, I suppose that I finally got tired of Ron having to dry me out every morning. I suspect that he did as well."

Harry finally raised his own glass, taking a small sip and being surprised by the rather pleasant sensation the ice cold liquid added to the fiery aftereffect – it was almost refreshing.

"You don't talk about him much."

"We had a bit of a falling out over his sister years ago, and by the time we got things sorted, he'd taken a job with the Chudley Cannons and spent most of his time outside of England." Harry ran his finger along the rim of the glass. "He still does during the on-season, though not like the early days when they had him doing a lot of the grunt work. I suppose it's just as well, I think he and Hermione would kill each other otherwise."

"He's the strategist, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Always was brilliant at strategy, Ron was. I never once beat him in a game of chess, and he did a lot of the heavy lifting when I was captain of the Gryffindor team at Hogwarts."

He took another drink, more this time than the last, then tipped the glass back and drained it.

"Easy there, lightweight," Ben laughed.

Harry did wince this time, the icy burn sliding down his throat, warming his belly. He hadn't eaten in several hours, and he had a feeling he was going to regret asking for two fingers instead of one, but neither did he say no when Ben refilled his glass.

"You and Miss Parkinson seem close."

"You could say that," Harry laughed, his head starting to swim a bit from the alcohol. "There's an interesting story for you."

"Oh?"

"Pansy and I weren't exactly friends at school. Far from it, actually. She once tried to get all of Slytherin House to hand me over to Voldemort, all but trussed up like an early Christmas ham."

"And you forgave her?"

He took another long sip.

"It's easier to forgive when you know someone is motivated by fear. Not that she didn't hate me, mind, but…I think it was more about saving her own arse in that moment than anything else. Things were…bad."

Harry leaned his head back, stretching his legs out further, then kicking off his shoes, suddenly feeling right at home in Ben's flat as they sat there together, drinking rather good Ogden's.

"I heard."

"Not the half of it, I'm sure. For those of us that were there…well. I don’t think it's anything that any of us will ever forget. You're lucky that you weren't a part of it."

He let his head roll to the side, his muscles feeling surprisingly loose, and looking directly at Ben. The fluttering in his stomach had nothing to do with the booze, and should have been a warning, but Harry didn't care very much in that moment.

"Yes, lucky."

"Anyway, it was Luna who was friends with Pansy first. I was just part of the package."

"You had a choice in the matter, I'm sure."

Ben, too, kicked off his shoes and relaxed his posture enough that their shoulders were touching.

"Sure I did, but Luna…she had a way about her. I've never known anyone like her before. She saw things in people that others didn't. And she never held grudges. I don’t think she had a cruel bone in her body, which is certainly more than I can say for myself."

Harry found his glass being refilled, no recollection of having emptied it for a second – was it the second? – time.

"She ran into Pansy at Madam Malkin's when Luna was ordering a set of robes for one of the children at the orphanage who had just received their Hogwarts letter, and I guess the clerks were being rather rude to Pans. Luna can't help but be nice to people, even ones who treated her like shit in the past," Harry suddenly laughed, remembering those God awful shoes of hers hanging from one of the wooden rafters in the hallway outside the Great Hall at Hogwarts. "She felt like the only reason why people were cruel to others is because someone had been cruel to them first. It was her way of…correcting things, I suppose. Much to my chagrin, Pansy clung to her like a vine from that day forward."

The full length of their arms from shoulder to elbow were now pressed together as they relaxed further into the sofa…into each other.

"At first, I thought it was to do with me. Makes me seem self-centered, yeah? But people had done it before, even professors – wanting to use my reputation to boost their own. And Pansy, well she was a social pariah after the war when word got out what she tried to do to me. She's lucky she wasn't brought up on charges, but I suppose even the Wizengamot back then knew you couldn't imprison someone for being a bitch."

"She's still a bit of a bitch," Ben said without malice.

Harry thought that Ben sounded far too sober.

"Well, that's just her way. You get used to it."

Ben hummed his agreement.

"Anyway, Pansy started showing up weekly at our dinner table, and one night she just…she blurted out this…really awkward and sort of pathetic apology for what happened the day of the battle, and that was that. We didn't really get close, though, until Luna died." Harry turned his glass upside down, only then noticing it was empty, and frowned. "I think she was Pansy's only true friend, and she sees me as an extension of that…like part of Luna lives on through me, and it's all she has left of her friend. But I am her friend. I think she knows that."

He turned his head again to look at the other man and smiled when Ben was already right there, looking at him, too. Harry felt pleasantly warm inside to find Ben so close that their noses were almost touching.

"You never talk about your past."

"There isn't much to talk about," Ben answered matter-of-factly.

"What, no long lost love or deep, dark family secret to unload?"

"Can't say as I have either, I'm afraid."

"Okay, maybe not a dark family secret, although I'm curious about your dad- sorry, I get a bit loose-lipped when I drink."

"That's all right." Ben's hand gently patted his knee before going back to rest against his own thigh. Harry wanted him to bring that hand back and rest it on his thigh, instead.

"No long lost love, though? You haven't just come out of a monastery, have you?" he laughed, then felt a bit light-headed.

"I didn't leave anyone behind, if that's what you're asking."

"But all those pretty French girls from Beauxbatons? Christ, Ron and I could barely keep the drool off our robes when they came to visit in fourth year."

"Girls aren't really my type."

"…oh."

Ben laughed at the expression on Harry's face. It lit up like a Christmas tree. He wasn't drunk enough to not recognize the danger signs being waved in front of him, but just enough to where he didn't care about them.

"Well, pretty French boys, then?"

"There were a few boys, yes."

"It's too bad none of them came with the Beauxbatons girls, I might not have wasted so much time pining after Cho Chang if I'd figured things out a bit sooner. Hermione always did say she looked a bit…boyish."

"Cho Chang." It was a statement, not a question, but Harry was too far gone to notice any hint of recognition in Ben's voice when it had no business being there.

"Hmm. First girl I ever snogged. It was dreadful. She cried the whole time about her dead- about Cedric."

"Cedric Diggory."

Harry did notice it that time.

"It wasn't just the wizarding community in Britain that was affected by everything that happened," Ben covered his slip.

"'Spose so."

"So no boy at Hogwarts ever piqued your interest?"

"Hmm, maybe. In retrospect, o'course. There was one boy, really got un'er my skin. We hated each other, though."

Harry turned his body completely so that his knees were pressed against Ben's thigh, his cheek resting against the top of Ben's soft, silky hair. Harry wished it were blond instead of brown.

"Oh?"

"Since the moment we met, pretty much. He was a right little twat, le'me tell you. Thought he ruled the school or something, even when he was a puny little eleven year-old. Always going on about his dad, who turned out to be a murdering psychopath, by the way. Cons'antly trying to get me and my friends into trouble, can you believe he even dressed up as a Dementor once during a Quidditch game and damn near killed me?"

"Sounds unbearable."

"Oh he was. I got'im good in fifth year, though. Beat the bloody snot out of him – literally. Got banned from Quidditch for it, though, but it was worth it. I followed him around a lot after that, convinced he was up to no good – which he was, I was proved right la'er on. He was the one who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts the night the new war started. Don'know what happened to him after that, he disappeared for a while, off with old Snivellus Snape, I suspect, but then…"

"Then what?"

"Little bugger saved m'life one night. I would have been Greyback's dinner for sure had he not said he didn't recognize me. My face, it was all…to this day, I've no idea why he din't just say it was me. I know that he knew."

Harry yawned, wondering if Ben would mind terribly if he just fell asleep right there on the couch, using the other man's head as a pillow.

"I still have his wand."

"The wand that killed the Dark Lord?"

"Yeah. I's in my vault at Gringotts. I never gave it back to'im."

"And yet he piqued your interest?"

"Masochistic bugger, aren't I?" Harry laughed. "Oh, it's not like I was in love with the bloke or anythin'. I din't even like him, let alone anythin' else. But he was nice to look at…once he grew out of that pointy phase he looked quite…distinguished. Pansy adored him. I think she secre'ly still does."

"What happened to him?"

"No one knows. His mum died recen'ly, and I guess he just up and disappeared not long after. I haven't seen him since the trials right after the war, myself. I din't even see him at his father's trial for Luna's murder."

The room fell silent.

"Why do we always end up in such serious conversations?" Harry asked.

"Is this a serious conversation?"

"I'm talking about my dead wife and the war. I's all a bit maudlin, isn't it?"

"Maybe you just need to indulge your melancholy side more often, and I'm an easy target because we have no history."

"I've indulged in too much Ogden's, that's for certain," Harry laughed, instantly regretting it as his head swam. He sat up, hoping to right his equilibrium, and turned to look at Ben.

Lovely Ben. Always around. So nice and funny and kind and lovely…my Ben…

"Do you know wha' I'd really like to indulge in, though?"

"What's that?"

Ben's question was answered by the awkward press of Harry's lips to his. Hardly his best effort, but he had just downed three glasses of Firewhiskey on an empty stomach, and Ben had yet to push him away…so Harry took that as permission to proceed, shifting closer and tilting his head to right the awkward angle of the closed-mouth kiss. There, tha's better. How long had it been since he'd touched another person like this? Not since Luna, but Harry pushed all thoughts of her out of his head as he felt Ben's hands rest on his shoulders. A surprising wave of need and want began to filter through the alcohol, and build as Harry moved his lips against the other man's, too intoxicated on a combination of Firewhiskey and that lovely scent of warm sandalwood to notice that Ben hadn't joined in.

And it was wonderful, like he'd unlocked the door of a dark room and was feeling sunlight on his cold skin for the first time in ages…it was wonderful until he felt Ben's hands pressing against his shoulders – pressing, and pushing him away.

"Harry," he heard the low, soft voice say, but didn't want to open his eyes – didn't want to see the sunlight leave and be replaced with the rejection that was surely written all over Ben's face. Even in his drunkenness, he knew that he didn't want that.

"I have t' go," Harry said, standing quickly and swaying a bit on his feet, Ben instantly beside him to keep him from making an even bigger fool of himself and falling flat on his arse.

"'m sorry," he blurted out, still not brave enough to face him, and made one of the quickest exits of his life.

Draco woke up early the next morning, not at all rested after a fitful night of trying to sleep but failing miserably, thoughts of Harry keeping the wheels in his mind turning at a rapid pace. Draco usually wasn't one to show restraint when it came to something that he wanted, and he wanted Harry very much.

Oh how he wanted.

He had drunk enough to give him a slight headache this morning, but he doubted that it was anything like the one Harry was sure to be suffering through right now if the man didn't have a hangover potion in his medicine cabinet.

Something crawled up his spine in those first moments after Harry's lips touched his, a feeling that had all but left him three months ago when he found a way to enter the other man's life as a poor substitute for a guardian angel and right whatever wrongs he could. It was guilt. Harry was there, not a little bit drunk, and vulnerable, and kissing Ben. Ben, not Draco. And while he had been successful at tamping down the instincts of Draco Malfoy's in favour of Ben Mercier's in his dealings with Harry, he himself could not forget who he was.

And he was shocked to find that he needed Harry to want him, not Ben.

He was even more shocked to find that he wanted Harry in return. He never saw that coming.

Harry with his goofy grins and messy desk, eating his desserts first and 'forgetting' to charge nearly a fourth of his customers for various bits and bobs, with his constant questioning of why Ben did things the way he did, maybe not eager but willing to learn a new skill, who grumbled about paying taxes because he didn't like being forced to do something he was willing to do on his own..

Harry with his faraway looks and sometimes sad eyes. Draco wanted to make those go away forever.

But never mind the complications that any sort of sexual entanglement would cause – as a friend, Ben Mercier could just as easily drift out of Harry's life as he'd drifted into it, should the need arise for Draco to take on another persona, but as a lover…Harry would be hurt, and even Draco doubted how the normally brave man would hold up under any sort of rejection or betrayal of trust after what he had gone through with Luna.

No, if Harry were to take the leap and enter into a relationship of that sort, let it be with anyone but Ben. He could, at least, help pick up the pieces if someone else were to break Harry's heart, and he'd much rather pick up those pieces than be the one to make them.

Draco sat at table in his eat-in kitchen and conjured a cup of tea, too distracted and lazy to bother messing with the kettle. It was Saturday morning, nearly half past eight. The shop didn't open until noon on Saturdays, and Draco reveled in the extra time he could spend as himself. Not that Ben was very different from who he was – indeed, aside from the appearance and biography of the man, Ben Mercier was Draco Malfoy in every way that counted. All of his thoughts, feelings, and opinions were his own, and that aided in Draco's justification of convincing everyone in Harry's life – even dear Pansy - that they could trust him with their friend, for he truly meant no harm.

They would never believe the same of Draco Malfoy, and Harry especially would have just as soon spit in Draco's face than accept any sort of assistance from the son of the man who murdered his wife.

That look of rage may be preferable to the positively pitiful expression that Harry wore last night when Draco pushed him away, though. Draco had tried to make Harry look at him, but the other man was having none of it and left before Draco could tell him that there was nothing to be sorry about.

Draco pressed his fingers to his lips, remembering the insistent but soft touch of Harry's mouth.

Sighing heavily, Draco tossed the lukewarm tea into the sink, left the unwashed cup on the worktop, and went back to bed hoping to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep before he had to be downstairs for work.

"Morning, Dennis."

"Hiya, Ben. Harry won't be in today. Owled and said he was under the weather." He tossed the note in Ben's direction. "Mind if I turn the wireless on?"

Ben nodded, but frowned at Harry's absence and opted to ignore the note, doubtful it contained much truth.

The day dragged on, and at five o'clock when Dennis locked the door and flipped the closed sign on the door, Ben couldn't recall accomplishing much that day.

"Just because Harry isn't here, Dennis, doesn't mean you can sit on your arse all day. Don't you have clocks to fiddle with or something?"

Draco heard Pansy's voice as he came down the stairwell into the shop after having gone upstairs for another box of receipts. He paused on the last step, listening through the closed door.

"Not like Harry to be gone two days running. Should we check on him?"

"I already did. I think he's just having a bad spell. He did surprisingly well this year on the anniversary, maybe it was just delayed. He'll be fine, he always is."

Ben opened the door to the stairwell feeling more anxious than usual, largely owing to his concern over whether or not he would see Harry this morning and, if so, whether or not he'd find out if his absence was really due to feeling poorly or because he was avoiding Ben. His shoulders sagged in relief when, upon opening the door to the shop and seeing Harry standing at one of the display cabinets toward the front, his back toward him, and inspecting the wristband on one of the timepieces.

He had the overwhelming urge to walk up behind him, tangle his fingers in those messy dark locks, and show Harry what a real kiss between them would be like without the burn of Firewhiskey on their tongues.

"You should put a couple of those in the window to draw people in. They're lovely."

Harry turned quickly, clearly startled at not having heard Ben's approach. He took two steps backward, and Ben tried not to let his disappointment show, even though he was the one who had done the rejecting on Thursday night.

"Sorry, I didn't hear you come down."

"Are you feeling well?"

"What?" Harry didn't look so much confused as he did evasive.

"Dennis said that you were ill over the weekend."

"Oh. Um, yeah, I'm better thanks. Just, erm, too much Firewhiskey on Friday night," he said sheepishly. "Makes me do stupid things," he added quietly, a blush rising to stain his cheeks.

"Impetuous, maybe, but not unpleasant."

"It wasn't?"

"No, it wasn't."

"Oh."

Harry took half a step forward.

"But…"

"But?"

"I like our friendship, and our working relationship."

"Me, too."

"I don't want anything to spoil that."

"Right. Me neither."

And then another step back.

Ben finally turned to walk back to the tea and coffee station at the back of the shop, giving Harry his space.

"Should I put the kettle on? I picked up some Darjeeling yesterday while I was out, and the most divine scones you'll ever have."

"Sounds good," Harry answered, but Ben could tell it was an automatic response.

Harry put on a good-natured front after the renewed sting of Ben's rejection, but limited his contact with him for the rest of the week – not because he was feeling sorry for himself, but because every time the scent of sandalwood overwhelmed him, his heart ached just a little bit more.

"Come on, Harry, if you don’t tell us what you want, I can guarantee you that you're either get something completely rubbish, or completely embarrassing."

"I think that I still have the inflatable hippogriff that George gave me last year, you just might end up with that in your birthday bag," Dennis laughed, the contents of his pint glass spilling over as he slammed it on the table for emphasis.

Madam Rosmerta sent a dirty look in his direction. "If you break another glass, Dennis Creevey, I'll have your hide!" she yelled across the pub.

"I think that Harry wants what he can't have," Pansy said knowingly, and ignoring the kick that Harry gave her under the table.

"What, the Holyhead Harpies to make it to the World Cup?" Dennis teased.

"Precisely."

"What do you want, Harry?" Ben asked.

"World peace. And the National Lottery winning numbers. I could live with that." Harry took a drink – plain old pumpkin juice this time. He vowed to never drink again after the utter fool he'd made of himself the last time. It was bad enough that Ben was there to witness it, he didn't need Pansy and Dennis seeing it, too.

"Then Dennis and I would be out of a job while you travel the globe on a luxurious yacht, sending us postcards of you half-naked and sunburned on some island beach," Ben laughed.

"I'd give you a considerable severance package," Harry winked at him.

"I'll just bet you would," Pansy said under her breath.

"Something to add, Pansy?" He contemplated another kick under the table.

"Who, me? Not at all. In fact, I should be going. The night is just getting started," she said, standing and straightening what little bit of skirt she had on, "and I'll not spend it in the company of gentlemen with whom I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of pulling."

"No using Confundus charms on the Muggles to lure them back to your flat, Pans," Harry called after her.

"Oh shut your face."

"I'm going as well," Dennis chimed in. "Sabrina will have my balls in a lockbox if I come home drunk again."

"I thought her name was Miranda?" Ben looked confused.

"That was last month, mate. Keep up, will you?"

"My mistake."

"You're forgiven if you pay for my drinks."

"Get out of here," Harry laughed.

"See you sorry sods Monday! Thanks again for the weekend off, Harry."

Their somewhat private booth was much quieter now as just Ben and Harry sat in relatively comfortable silence.

"Fancy a walk?" Ben asked.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

They exited the door of the Three Broomsticks after waving their goodbyes to Rosmerta, Ben not quite able to look her in the eye, and headed out into Hogsmeade. With Hogwarts virtually empty for the summer, the town was almost eerily quiet.

"We could walk down by the Black Lake, say hello to the squid," Harry suggested with a crooked smile.

"Actually, I've a better place in mind."

"Oh?"

Harry was taken aback by the serious expression on Ben's face.

"Do you trust me?"

"Well that's a loaded question," Harry answered, laughing nervously.

"Come here."

Harry looked down at the proffered hand, hesitating for the smallest of moments before taking hold. Ben stepped closer, using his other hand to cradle the back of Harry's neck. He didn't normally get chills in early June, but Harry did just then.

"Hold on."

Harry almost said that he didn't plan on ever letting go, but didn't.

He closed his eyes as the pull of Apparition took him to an unknown destination, not opening them until he felt his feet firmly on the ground again. He swayed slightly, but Ben held on until he steadied himself.

"Everyone always seems to be better at that than me," he grinned crookedly, none too eager for Ben to move his hands.

Ben just smiled at him, and Harry loved the way the very edges of his eyes crinkled – he always knew when the smile was forced or not by the presence or lack thereof of said crinkles, and he was happy to note that, when directed at Harry, it never was.

"Where are we?" Harry asked as Ben finally released him.

"A place that my mother liked to bring me when I was young."

"It's…Muggle." Harry looked down the empty alleyway that they were in to what must have been a main road, several cars having passed by already.

"It was our secret from Father. He never knew that she liked to come here."

"And where's 'here'?"

"Salisbury."

They walked out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. Harry saw several small shops, not entirely unlike his own, and an old Tudor style building across the way. They walked for several minutes in comfortable silence as Ben led him into what, during the day, must be an open air market. He could see a small bridge up ahead, and when they crossed over it, he looked and saw several white swans and a few mallard ducks in the water. It was downright quaint, if he were going to be a girl about it.

"What was she like?"

Ben stopped them on a pathway off of the main sidewalk, and leaned against a railing that overlooked a cropping of rocks on the far edge of the narrow waterway that created a tiny waterfall, surrounded by lush, flowering greenery.

"Beautiful. Mysterious, even to me. She was a wonderful mother, but never saw that in herself."

"Why did she bring you here?"

Harry stood next to him, mirroring his pose and looking down at the water, their shoulders nearly touching. Even in the warm summer air, Harry swore that if he were to close his eyes, he could feel the other man standing there.

When did I fall so hard?

"She liked the shops here. Always went home with a trinket or two – a small vase or jewelry box. And I think that she liked being around people who didn't expect her to behave a certain way because of-" Ben hesitated, afraid that he was about to give too much away.

"Because of what?"

"Because of whom she was."

"It sounds like I should know of her."

"No," Ben said, wincing internally at the lie. It was becoming increasingly hard to impart these half-truths on Harry without small, but no less sharp, stabs of guilt.

"But also, I think that she wanted me to see a side of Muggles that my father didn't believe existed."

"What side is that?"

"Their complete and utter normalcy. Their ingenuity and what they can create to compensate for their lack of magic. Father believed, like a lot of pure-bloods, that Muggles were to be pitied, or worse. And I admit, for a long time I bought into all of that when I was old enough to stop sitting on my mother's lap and started sitting at my father's knee."

"I've known a lot of people like that – more than I care to count, actually."

Ben stepped away from the railing and moved to the opposite side of the pathway, with Harry following him, and they both sat down.

"I wasn't always this person, Harry. I wasn't always…"

"Nice?" Harry said, jokingly.

"No."

"But you're not that way now. Like your dad, I mean."

"No, I'm not."

"Could we come back here? During the daytime when the shops are open, I mean?"

"I'd like that."

There was that smile again, and Harry reveled in it. They sat a while longer, watching the occasional group of people or couple walk by, and just enjoying the peacefulness of the town, making the odd comment here or there about something one of them had observed and wanting the other to notice it, too.

As darkness started to fall, Harry stood, and Ben asked if he was ready to leave.

"Can we walk just a bit more?"

Ben led him to a wide open courtyard that was surrounded by what looked like grand houses, but were actually places of business. One of them was a tea room, and Harry made a mental note to go there when he came back with Ben another day.

Harry looked out along the wide, square expanse of grass, and started to walk toward the middle. When he reached the center, he looked around and, seeing no one but Ben still standing at the edge of the grass, he conjured up a blanket – wide enough for two – and laid on his back, arms behind his head, and looked up at the stars. After a few moments, he heard the rustle of grass and felt the material of the blanket under his bare arm shift, smiling as Ben came to lie beside him.

"Even though I live in the country, sometimes I forget to take a moment and look up at the sky. Luna would sit out in the back garden and stargaze for hours. Sometimes, I swore she'd stay out there all night if I hadn't gone to fetch her."

"I'm sorry that you lost her, Harry. I don’t think that I've said that before, but I truly am."

"It's all right; I'm not the first person to have lost someone. I only wish-"

Harry stopped, not wanting to spoil the mood with more talk of tragic history.

"What?" Ben prompted him quietly.

Harry took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"She was pregnant when she died. Only I didn't know until after. She was going to tell me that night. We were going out for her birthday. She had told Pansy at that point. That was so like her - we were going to celebrate her birthday, but I was the one getting the gift."

"I…don't remember reading about that during the trial."

"No one else knew outside our close family and friends. She was only eight weeks along. I didn't want them to know."

Ben was well and truly shocked. If my mother knew… He turned on his side and raised up slightly, leaning on his elbow and looking down at Harry.

"But Lucius would have been tried for two murders, not one."

"Would it have mattered?" Harry replied, looking up at him. "He was never getting out as it was. It would have just been something else for the papers to exploit."

Ben didn't know what to say, and after deciding not to press the subject further, laid back down.

"Tell me your favourite childhood memory."

"Oh. I suppose…well I suppose that it would have to be coming here with Mother. Watching her face light up when she saw something that she liked." He smiled at the memory of her pretty face. "She'd always buy me an ice cream, and didn't scold me if I ended up with some of it on my clothes like Father would have."

"Thank you," Harry said after a moment of silence.

"For what?"

"Bringing me here."

"It was my pleasure," Draco answered back, and he meant it.

Harry lay in bed, eyes wide open but with no desire to move just yet. He contemplated staying in bed until ten o'clock, knowing he'd be forgiven the indulgence on his birthday of all days, but knew that the longer he put off work in the morning, the longer he'd be stuck doing it that evening, and he didn't want to miss a moment of whatever his friends had planned for later that night…he hoped that Ben was still planning to join them.

Since that evening in June when, for the first time since Ben had entered their lives, he had joined them on one of their regular London pub excursions, Harry began spending more and more time with the man outside of work. He knew it was dangerous, knew that he was risking more than just a sour working relationship should something go wrong, but Harry didn't care.

For the first time since he lost Luna, he felt…well, he felt. Alive instead of just existing, joyful more than sad, and he hadn't laughed this much in years. Even Ron noticed a difference when he had come home from a four month recruiting tour and met up with Harry at the Fox and Castle in Old Windsor last Sunday.

"Someone's cheerful for a change."

"Sod off, I'm always cheerful."

"You're fake-cheerful, you mean."

"So maybe I'm just done moping. I can't mourn her forever, you know."

"Hey, I'm not complaining. It's good to see a bit of the old Harry back," Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder before nicking a handful of chips from his best friend's plate.

"They sell these here, you know."

"And you'll buy more when I'm through with this lot here. Pass the vinegar, would you?"

"Disgusting."

"Delicious, you mean. It's like a little bit of heaven in my mouth right now."

Harry couldn't help laughing at Ron's ridiculousness.

"So tell me, what's the cheery disposition for, eh? New bird? Or is it a bloke this time?" Ron winked at him.

"It's nobody."

"Liar."

"I'm not."

"You are – you've got that look."

"What look?"

"That look that says you're mooning over someone. Lying about on the sofa, staring off into space, sighing those long-winded sighs."

"I don't do that! You make me sound like a bloody girl!"

"Are you?" Ron looked at him sideways, and Harry cuffed him hard on the back of his head, knowing exactly what Ron was implying.

"Okay maybe you haven't done it lately, and by that I mean in the past several years, mind, but you used to. You did it with Cho Chang, you did it with my sister once you finally noticed her, and you did it with Luna. So go on, who is it?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody I know, eh?"

"No, Ron, I said nobody – period," Harry just shook his head good-naturedly as his best mate continued to pester him.

"You know I'll only ask Hermione or Pansy."

Harry sighed, deciding to give in – but just a little.

"It doesn't matter anyway; he doesn't want to get involved.

"Ah, so it is a bloke this time. That new fellow at work, is it? Ben whatshisname?"

"How do you know about him?" Harry gaped – he hadn't mentioned him at all to Ron.

"'Mione's mentioned him a few times when she visited me."

"What makes you think it's him?"

"Well you don't go anywhere but the shop and home, well and the occasional pub but you're not the type to pull some stranger, and it sure as hell better not be Creevey."

"Ugh, no," Harry shuddered.

"So the only other logical person is this Ben person."

"Since when are you familiar with the concept of logic?" Harry joked.

"Since I started sharing a bed with Hermione," Ron answered, leering lasciviously and wagging his eyebrows, ignoring Harry's peals of laughter.

"Glad to have you home, Ron."

"Save your soppiness for your new boyfriend Ben and order me up more of these chips."

The sting of Ben's rejection had lessened considerably to the point that he could joke about it with Ron, and gone was the guilt that had him hiding away at home for two days until Hermione came round to check on him at Pansy's insistence. When he'd first stumbled into his house, having foolishly Apparated with several ounces of Firewhiskey sloshing around in his otherwise empty stomach, he went straight upstairs to his room and slammed the door behind him just before collapsing on the bed.

On top of being thoroughly embarrassed at having made a pass at his employee of all people, he couldn't stop thinking of Luna, and feeling as though he had betrayed her somehow, irrational though that was.

But in moments like these, he missed her so much it was like she had just died, so raw was the pain in his heart. It took his breath away sometimes, the cruel newness of it.

She understood Harry like no one else ever had, and saw things through a different set of eyes than everyone else did – she wasn't like Hermione, who had to dissect and know every last detail just to understand something. Luna had an unbelievable amount of faith, not just in people, but in the way the world around her operated and functioned. She wanted for nothing, because she knew that if she needed it, it would be provided by someone, somehow, somewhere. It was why Harry spoiled her so, giving her things she never asked for and taking her places she never asked to go. Harry needed to be needed, and Luna needed him, but without expectation or pressure in the same way that Ginny did. Ginny's need was…oppressive and stifling. But Luna's was freeing and liberating, because he knew that as long as he loved her, she would never be disappointed in him even if he made the wrong choice.

Ginny wanted him to be so many different things, but Luna...she just wanted him to be.

Harry's relationship with Luna had been cultivated over several years, starting at Hogwarts when she faced death simply because Harry was her friend. He can still remember the day in 1998 when he, Ron, and Hermione had gone to her home and learned about the Deathly Hallows legend from her father. He saw her childhood bedroom then…the walls adorned with homemade paintings of himself, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville, and the golden chains that linked them, the word friend repeated to infinity.

He'd felt such affection for her in that moment. He never felt that for anyone else, not that way, not even with Ginny…but he remembered feeling it the morning before that kiss while he watched Ben do something entirely meaningless – with a quick sweep of his hand, he had brushed toast crumbs from the surface of Harry's desk, unaware that Harry had seen him do so. It wasn't so much the action itself, mundane as it was, but rather the look on Ben's face as he did it. No irritation, no chastisement, just an 'I will do this for you' sort of look that made Harry feel…endeared to him.

It was in that moment that something woke up inside him, something that had been asleep for so long, and all over some silly toast crumbs.

He felt, with Ben, like there were no expectations being held over his head.

He'd missed that feeling.

"I'm afraid that you're going to be terribly underwhelmed by your gift."

"I'll let you know as soon as you let me see it," Harry laughed.

Ben kept his hands firmly over Harry's eyes as he led through shop and toward their shared office space. He forgot to warn the blind man of the slightly raised threshold, causing Harry to stumble, but quick reflexes had his arm firmly around Harry's waist to steady him before he could trip.

"Prat, you did that on purpose," Harry said, breathless.

"I didn't let you fall, did I?"

Harry didn't reply, but smiled as he enjoyed the feel of the other man being pressed so closely behind him, a strong arm keeping him secure as he was guided further.

"Ready to be disappointed?"

"Absolutely." His face hurt from smiling.

Ben took his hand away from Harry's eyes and walked around him to see his face. Harry looked, predictably, confused.

"It's…a filing cabinet."

"A proper filing cabinet" Ben corrected him.

"Are you sure this isn't a gift for you?"

"No. Well, maybe a bit," he smirked, "but primarily it's for you."

Harry walked up to it, running his fingers along the design carved into the rich mahogany wood, an intricate scroll design…elegant but still fitting in with the rest of the office like it was meant to be there.

"It's self-filing, see. Just toss something in, and it places it in the right section for you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Oh, there's also a new set of watch keys in the top drawer. I heard you complaining the other day about Dennis always walking off with them. This way, you have your own set."

"They're lovely."

"Steel and brass. Mr. Simon said that they were the best."

Harry walked over to where Ben stood by the bookcase.

"You went to see Mr. Simon for me?"

"About three weeks ago," Ben nodded.

Harry took another step closer, hoping the other man wouldn't look away.

"Ben…"

He saw a flash of something in those hazel eyes – fear or hunger, he couldn't tell which. He hoped it was the latter, and if so, that it was even just a fraction of the hunger that Harry was feeling.

And right now, Ben was dessert.

"It's late."

"Not that late," Harry countered, daring to take another step.

Just one more…

"I'll see you in the morning. Happy birthday, Harry."

And suddenly Ben was gone.

"Yeah. Happy birthday to me," Harry said bitterly.

"He won't budge, Hermione, and I'm afraid that if I push him too hard…"

"Well it's his loss. Anyone would be lucky to have you."

Harry scowled, pushing what was left of his overly salted chips around the plate.

"Tell him that."

"Do you want me to?"

"God, no!" He looked at her, horrified that she just might.

"I'm surprised that Parkinson hasn't already."

"So am I, to be honest."

"Oh! Before I forget, I clipped this article for you," Hermione said, reaching down for her bag and pulling out a colourful piece of paper. "Found it in a one of those magazines at Sainsbury's while waiting for Ron to decide on lagers for the boys. It's the ten most expensive watches in the world." Hermione laid the paper on the article, then set her bag back down by her feet. "There's a few of Phillipe Patek's in there, and I know you like his work."

Harry smiled at her flubbing of Patek Phillipe's name, but didn't correct her.

Hermione slid the article, folded up, across table to him.

"Yeah, thanks."

Just as Harry reached for it, a young woman bumped into their table, and Harry found himself with a lap full of greasy chips. Damn, I'd just laundered these.

Hermione filled Harry in on recent goings-on in her office, and then they parted for the afternoon. Before Harry left, he pocketed the article that Hermione had saved for him and didn't see it again until a week later, the day before the Ministry audit.

"Where the hell did I put that shirt?" Harry muttered to himself, frustrated at how behind he had let himself get on household chores, namely laundry.

"Maybe it's in this pile over here, eh, Fred?"

Fred the cat glanced up at his owner but continued leisurely licking his flank, caring not one whit that Harry was a nervous bundle about the next day's audit. It wasn't that he didn't have faith in Ben's new record keeping system, it was that he was going to end up with a bill for more in taxes than he could afford, and have to take a healthy sum from his private vault to make up for the loss because firing either Dennis or Ben just wasn't an option.

Harry picked up the denims that he had worn to lunch with Hermione a week earlier, remembering the grease stain from when that woman had bumped into their table, landing half of Harry's plate on his lap. As he always did, he checked the pockets for loose change, random receipts (Ben would kill him if they were customer receipts from the shop), and whatever else Harry might haphazardly shove into his pockets throughout a normal day. He pulled out the slick page from the magazine that Hermione had told him about, the article on the world's most expensive watches, and unfolded it to have a quick look.

There toward the bottom of the page, in the number two spot, was Ben's pocket watch. The piece that Harry had admired so much on the first day that Ben had come into his shop and into his life, and on so many occasions after that.

The Patek Phillipe Supercomplication that had, according to the article, sold at auction at Sotheby's in New York City in June of 1980 for $11 million dollars to an 'anonymous buyer' who was 'rumoured to be the matriarch of a wealthy but reclusive family in Wiltshire, England, to celebrate the arrival of their newborn son.'

Harry felt an icy chill spread through him, despite the summer heat, and he sat down on the edge of his bed, a pile of dirty clothes falling to the floor at his feet.

The matriarch of a wealthy but reclusive family in Wiltshire, England. Newborn son. 1980.

Wiltshire.

Ben, who was estranged from his father and whose mother had died. Whose father taught him about pure-blood superiority. Who took over managing the family estate when his father had abandoned them.

"Did you hear the news?"

"Hmm?"

"Narcissa Malfoy died."

"Did she?"

"About eight months ago, apparently.

Malfoy Manor is in Wiltshire.

"Enough business talk. You’ve been with me for nearly three weeks now and I’ve been dying to ask how you happened upon that glorious pocket watch."

"As I said, it was a gift."

"From my mother. It originally belonged to my father. It was a gift from her shortly after I was born."

Harry dropped the article on his bedroom floor, and got dressed as quick as he could, that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach getting more and more worse by the second. He sent his Patronus with a message for Dennis, telling him that there'd been an emergency and to keep the shop closed for the day, and that he would be in later that evening to prepare for the next day's audit.

As soon as he slid his trainers on without even bothering to do up the laces, he Apparated to the nearest designated point to the SIS building near Vauxhall Bridge to find Hermione.

Draco opened the door to his flat, grateful that he didn't break his neck on the way up the stairs as the several grocery bags he'd been carrying were obstructing his view. He set them on the worktop in the kitchen, and when he turned around, was shocked to find Harry sitting on his sofa, alone and in the dark.

It wasn't so dark that Draco couldn't see his face, and he had seen that stormy look on Harry's face before. He was on the receiving end of it many a time during their Hogwarts days. Harry had never just entered his flat before, especially when 'Ben' wasn't there. Surely Harry would have knocked, but had apparently entered anyway despite his absence.

"Hello, Harry," he said with forced casualness.

The sick feeling in the pit of Draco's stomach only increased as he took note of the long, slender box that rested on Harry's legs. He waited for the other man to speak – or even blink – but there was no movement or sound.

Something was terribly wrong, and he only wished that his worst fear hadn't come to pass.

Playing the game for as long as he could, Ben returned his attentions to the grocery bags and started to empty their contents onto the worktop.

"Is everything all right? I was worried when Dennis told me about the emergency and your keeping the shop closed." He pulled a bottle of milk from one of the bags. "With the audit tomorrow, I only assumed that you would have want-"

As Draco turned to place the milk in the fridge, he was startled to find Harry standing right behind him, not having heard him approach from the other side of the room. Harry held the long box in his hands, and Draco noticed the white of his knuckles, so tight was his grip on it.

Harry's glare was intimidating enough that Draco had to break eye contact, lest he spill all his secrets without even being questioned.

Every fibre of his being knew that Harry had somehow discovered his ruse, and what was in the box that Harry held so tightly.

"Take it." Harry's voice was low. Dangerous.

Draco just stood there, too afraid to move.

"Take it," Harry said, more forcefully now. "It's yours, after all."

Draco set the milk back down on the worktop and gingerly took the box from Harry's grip. He slowly lifted the lid, holding onto his last vestiges of hope that it didn't contain what he intrinsically knew was inside.

He could already feel its magic respond to his touch, even through the wooden box and velvet lining.

He used to wonder if the tree from which it was crafted still stood…if the unicorn who had given of itself to create its magical core still roamed the forbidden forest near the grounds at Hogwarts.

My wand. The very one that Harry had taken from him that day at the Manor. The day that his mother said he had made the right choice.

The wand that Harry used to take down Lord Voldemort for the last and final time.

"Pick it up." Harry took another step closer. "Draco."

As though under Imperius, Draco did as he was told, unable to resist the warm, familiar feeling of the supple wood. Oh how he had missed this wand, and apparently it missed him, too, as bright yellow sparks shot out from the tip barely before it had it cradled in his palm.

"You know," was all that Draco could say, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes still fixated on the wand in his hand.

"I know."

"I can explain-"

"Take it off."

"What?" Draco asked, startled by the question, unclear of its meaning.

"The glamour. Take it off."

"Harry-"

"DO IT!"

Draco bristled at the loud, harsh order, but did as he was asked and, with his hawthorn wand, ended the glamour charm and looked at Harry with grey eyes instead of hazel. He looked away almost immediately, unable to deal with the rage and accusation in the green eyes staring back at him.

And pain. There was so much pain in that one single look.

"Was this fun for you, Draco?" Harry asked, spitting out his name as though it were a foul curse.

"No," Draco finally answered, sitting in the kitchen chair right beside him, lest his knees buckle as they were threatening to do.

"So what was your grand plan, then?" Harry bent down, taking away Draco's excuse to not look at him. "What exactly was your end game?"

"This wasn't a game."

Draco couldn't bring himself to face the rage burning behind those green eyes, and kept his gaze on the floor.

"Wasn't it?" Harry said, leaning so close that Draco could feel his breath on his cheek.

"Harry-"

"Get out."

He saw Harry's feet move, and finally looked up to see Harry's back to him as he braced himself against the kitchen sink, apparently looking out the window.

But Draco still couldn't move – he felt frozen

"Get out of this flat, and don't ever come back."

Draco would have almost preferred that Harry scream at him – throw a punch or two, even – anything but this quiet ferocity, tinged with hurt.

"God help you if I ever see your face again, Draco Malfoy."

The few moments of silence were finally broken by the quiet pop of Apparition, and when Harry turned around, Ben- no, not Ben was gone. He could feel wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes, and he wiped it away harshly, refusing to shed any tears over Malfoy's cruel duplicity.

He looked around the now familiar flat, eyes taking in everything that said Ben Mercier lives here…all of the changes the other man had made to make the space his own, from the pale cream colour on the walls to the smoky grey velvet curtains covering the large window in the main living area. He looked at the half-unpacked bags of groceries sitting on the kitchen worktop and, over by the fridge, sat a jar of Ben's – his favourite blackberry preserves, probably used just hours ago with his usual Monday morning cream scone.

"I don't like it cold – it lessens the intensity of the flavour."

"FUCK!" Harry yelled into the empty room, grabbing and throwing the bottle of milk against the door opposite, the thick glass breaking and shattering from the force of it, milk now dripping from the walls and ceiling.

He didn't care that he hadn't asked Malfoy why, or given him the chance to explain when he lamely attempted it. He'd been sitting in that flat for hours waiting on him to return, and by then he was so full of hate and rage toward anyone and everything Malfoy that it was lucky the other man left with all of his teeth in his mouth instead of in a bloody pile on the floor.

He Apparated out of the flat, leaving the mess behind, and forgetting all about the Ministry's examiner due in the morning.

"I must say, it's a vast improvement on the last time that I was here, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, sir," Harry tried to adopt an upbeat tone so as not to appear sullen, but he wasn't sure he was succeeding.

"All of the ledgers seem to be in order, now that you're actually using them." Smythe walked over the self-filing cabinet, seeming to admire it. "And I see that you've acquired a filing cabinet, and a very nice one at that. This looks like Miss Biddleby's handiwork, am I right?"

"I'm not sure, it was a gift."

"Use it well, then."

Harry refrained from mentioning that he would likely burn it to cinders later that day, eager to exorcise some of the rage inside him while ridding the shop of anything that Malfoy had left behind.

"I understand that you have a bookkeeper on staff now as well?" Smythe asked, thumbing through the accounts payable ledger.

"Yes," Harry lied. The examiner didn't need to know that Malfoy had effectively been fired the night before.

"What's his name, then?"

Harry cringed inwardly. "Ben Mercier."

It hurt just saying it.

"Never heard of him, but give the man a bump in salary – your records are quite impeccable."

Harry nodded stiffly, not wanting to invite any further conversation so that Smythe would finish up and leave him to continue his tantrum in peace.

"So? How'd it go? You two were in there for hours!"

Dennis was practically bouncing on his heels.

"Passed with flying colours."

"So how much did they milk you for?"

"Nothing, actually. They owe me money."

"Your serious?"

"Apparently I wasn't taking as many deductions as I could have, and overpaid on my last estimate."

"Wow, Ben really knows what he's doing- hey, where is he?"

"Out."

"Oh. That's a bit weird, he's never missed a day, and for it to be today of all days…"

Harry said nothing, preferring to avoid any mention of his former bookkeeper, and began putting all of the ledgers back in order on the bookshelf.

"You okay, Harry? You seem a bit…down."

"I'm just tired, Dennis."

A few beats of silence, then the younger man continued.

"He'll be preening about this, you realise."

"No he won't."

"Come on, the man's as-"

"He won't, because he's not coming back, Dennis."

Harry's nerves were stretched near to the breaking point.

"Eh?"

"He's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I fired him."

"What?"

"Are your ears not working this morning?" Harry finally snapped, "I said he's gone and he's not coming back!"

Harry threw the last few ledgers back onto the desk, the slamming sound echoing in the small space.

Dennis, clearly taken aback, closed his gaping mouth and walked out of the office. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, angry at himself, angry at Dennis, angry at the world. He took deep, meditative breaths like he used to do when the pressure became overwhelming. After several minutes, Harry went out into the shop area, making sure no customers were present before approaching the other man.

"I'm sorry that I snapped at you, I'm just…"

"No worries mate," Dennis said to him without rancour. "I just don't understand."

"Neither do I," Harry said quietly.

"Yesterday, you were gone because of some emergency, and we were both really worried about you when we didn't hear from you at all. Ben especially."

"Was he?" Harry fought not to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, he kept wanting to check on you, but we had no idea where to find you. What happened?"

"I can't talk about it right now, Dennis. I've…got a lot to do."

"Okay," Dennis finally conceded, taking in the defeated posture of his friend and employer as he stood in front of the his favourite grandfather clock, the one Pansy only referred to as 'the Monstrosity,' wiping off a few invisible flecks of dust with his shirt sleeve.

Pansy had cried on Harry's shoulder for nearly two weeks after he had told her the truth about Ben Mercier. She had, it seems, truly loved and missed the arrogant boy she worshipped at Hogwarts, her heart still bearing the scars from everything that happened leading up to the war when she watched Lucius rule over him with an increasingly iron fist, and then Malfoy finally giving in to the Dark Lord's will and submitting. She confessed on one of those nights over warm brandy and a box of tissues that she had not only been thinking of herself in the moment that she proposed pushing Harry into the arms of certain death, but also of her childhood friend who, in retrospect, she had fallen a little bit in love with. She just couldn't bear the thought of him "joining the line of lifeless bodies that was piling up around the school grounds," she said to him.

"That he never sought me out, never came to me…why didn't he, Harry? Why didn't he find me? I would have never turned him away," she cried, tears streaming down her face.

"I don’t know, Pans," was all he could say as he tightened the arm around her shoulders in a sympathetic embrace.

Harry had started to ask himself that same question so many times in the hours and days following the cruel discovery - why? It made no sense, he didn't know what Malfoy had to gain, unless it was some sick, twisted way of finishing the job his father had started. What was the end game? He asked Malfoy that night and never got an answer, not that Harry really gave him a chance. His thoughts always turned to how he had felt for Ben, and wondered if Malfoy's big plan wasn't just to get Harry involved so deeply, make him wait so long for satisfaction that when Harry finally got it, Malfoy could just disappear, never to be heard from again like he had when Narcissa died.

And for Harry, that would be almost like losing Luna all over again, and Harry couldn't let his thoughts travel there. Not now.

But even Harry had to admit that Clock Wise wasn't the same without Ben – without Malfoy. He still found himself referring to the Slytherin by his fake name during the rare instances when he couldn't avoid bringing him up, usually with regard to trying to maintain the new recordkeeping system he had implemented. Even in Harry's mind, he was still Ben. A sombre sort of melancholy enveloped the shop, even to the point that one of his regular customers casually inquired after Dennis's well being, noting his lack of usual joviality. Harry blamed Malfoy, of course, refusing to admit that his own pervasive and constant sour mood of late had anything to do with his apprentice's state of mind.

Harry still hadn't cleaned out the upstairs flat, though a few weeks back he did send Kreacher in to clear out the groceries and spilled – then soured – milk that were still there from the day that his world came crashing down around him. He had forgotten about it, until Dennis noticed the unpleasant smell coming from under the doorway.

It was time, though, to clear out the personal belongings, knowing that Malfoy had never returned for them because the day after the fight, Harry had excluded him from being able to enter the wards around the shop. He didn't know where Malfoy had gone off to, and didn't particularly care if he'd been stranded with nothing and unable to access his things, not after what he'd done.

"I'll be upstairs for a bit."

Dennis, surprised that Harry even mentioned the flat, let alone proclaiming that he was going up there, just nodded and watched him open the door, and saw him pause for a moment before taking the first step and closing the door behind him.

Harry got to the top of the stairs and turned the doorknob, realising he had never locked it that day. Opening the door, he saw that everything was in its place – no dirty teacups in the sink, no balled up dishtowel on the worktop, no displaced pillows on the sofa.

Harry suddenly loathed that sofa and every memory associated with it.

He walked into the kitchen, running his finger along the small, round table where he had traded so many stories with 'Ben.' He walked over to the fridge and pulled open the door. Kreacher must have assumed that whatever tenant had been living here was coming back, because there in the middle of the top shelf, all by itself, was a small half-empty jar of blackberry jam.

Harry reached in and pulled it out, the cold glass chilling his fingers instantly. Breathing deeply, he shut the fridge door and set the jam jar on the worktop by the empty sugar bowl where Ben had always kept it.

Not that it mattered. He wouldn't be back to care whether or not it was cold.

He made his way into the bedroom where he assumed the bulk of Malfoy's personal things would be…or were they still 'Ben's?' How much of Ben was actually Malfoy? Harry couldn't coincide the two people. Could Malfoy have any of the endearing qualities that made up Ben Mercier? The face was different, but…what about his laugh that Harry loved to hear? His thoughtfulness about practical things like self-filing cabinets? His strong arms that had kept Harry from falling the night of his birthday…could Malfoy be or possess any of those qualities, or was it all a grand show for Harry's benefit?

And for what? In the weeks that had passed since he discovered who 'Ben' really was, he still couldn't wrap his mind around any possible motive, except the only one that made any kind of sense. Lucius Malfoy, now rotting in Azkaban, had targeted Luna because he wanted to take away the most important thing to Harry – the bastard knew that the best revenge wouldn’t be taking Harry's life, but his livelihood, and knew Harry well enough to know that losing those he loved – Sirius, Remus, even his parents that he hardly remembered – was the ultimate revenge. And he had been right. Losing Luna had been sharper than any knife that Lucius could have plunged through his heart…more unbearable than any Cruciatus curse he could throw at him.

His son could have easily done it to him all over again, and nearly had. Malfoy had always blamed Harry for what was really his father's own stupid fault. Was all of this just his idea of payback for his father turning into little more but a drooling invalid in a moldy cell? Was Malfoy so hell-bent on revenge that this was the best that he could come up with?

But he still didn't understand Ben's continued rejection of what Harry thought were less than subtle advances, the drunken kiss notwithstanding.

No, the biggest question that Harry would always have about the mystery that was 'Ben Mercier' was why, but he didn't want to give Malfoy the satisfaction of digging the knife a little deeper.

Harry went over to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room – a new addition, as Mr. Wise would have never owned anything so ornate; the deep, smooth carvings of an intricate dragon tableau filling the entirety of the dark cherry wood doors. He pulled on the brass handle, opening the left side to reveal neat rows of robes and button-down shirts. The scent of warm sandalwood, the one he always associated with 'Ben' and had, on more than one occasion, made him lose his train of thought, invaded his senses, and he stepped backward to sit on the bed.

How many times had he wanted to be in this bed, under the linens, feeling smooth, warm skin against his own for the first time in…

He smothered that line of thinking before it could progress further, deciding that this had been a bad idea all around and resolving to send Kreacher to do the task of packing up everything that wasn't here prior to March 14th.

Had it only been that long? It felt like years…not months.

As he stood, he felt the heel of his shoe bump against something just out of sight under the bed. Leaning down, he saw the edge of a small, handheld suitcase, no bigger than a large textbook, and pulled it out, picking it up and setting it on the bed. The initials 'NBM' were embossed on the front, the letters black against the worn leather covering. He didn't debate for long on whether or not to open it, justifying the small invasion of privacy by remembering that the case belonged to Draco Malfoy, who wasn't to be trusted.

Doing a quick scan to make sure there was nothing overtly dangerous inside, he flipped open the double latch and exposed the contents.

Newspaper clippings – dozens, maybe hundreds of them, stacked neatly and tied with thick string in several separate bundles as though organised in some fashion.

Harry saw his own face on the topmost pages, and he suddenly knew that it was probably on all of the others as well. He picked up one of the bundles and untied the string, leafing through the stack…articles from fourth year and the chaos surrounding his selection by the Goblet of Fire for the Triwizard Tournament, most of which were written by Rita Skeeter with material mostly provided by Malfoy himself.

Another stack was all about the final battle, constant references to 'hero' and 'saviour' flashing up at him. The next was Harry's start in the Auror training camp…another, his engagement to Luna…another still, her murder and trial…

Every single piece of paper in the suitcase was about him in some way, either directly and indirectly.

Harry noticed a small silk pouch sewn into the lining of the case, and saw that something was inside. Dipping his fingers inside, he felt something smooth, like glass, brush against his fingertips. It was warm to the touch, and when Harry lifted it out he knew exactly what it was.

A memory.

He shoved all the articles back inside the suitcase, not caring about the messiness and loss of organization, and pocketed the glass vial before grabbing the handle and walking back out into the main room of the flat and out the door, sealing it closed behind him. He wouldn't be going in there again.

"What have you got for me, old bird?"

Harry untied the small but considerably heavy package from the unfamiliar eagle owl's leg, opening his desk drawer and sifting around until he found a seldom used bag of owl treats.

"Might be a bit stale, sorry about that."

The owl hooted softly, bending her head and gingerly taking the treat from his fingers before flying out through the open window. Harry hoped she hadn't travelled far, and wondered who would send such an obviously old bird on a postal delivery.

Seeing no note attached to the outside of the package, which wasn't any bigger than one of the small mantle clocks that he sold in his shop, he tore open the wrapping to reveal a non-descript black box.

When he opened it up and saw what lay inside, it was only his immense appreciation for the craftsmanship that kept him from throwing it out the same window the old owl had just flown through.

He opened his desk drawer, and slid the Patek Phillipe pocket watch that he'd coveted for so long as far back as it would go, completely out of sight…not willing to part with it, but hoping that he would forget that was there.

Harry was walking down Victoria Street, cursing his lack of warm gloves as he walked against the icy cold breath of old man winter. He had an appointment with Mr. Simon in twenty minutes to pick up two new callipers for himself and Dennis. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, and Harry checked his watch to see if he had time to pop into Prêt for a quick sandwich.

Approaching the large windows of the quick serve restaurant, Harry walked briskly to the door and grabbed the handle to pull open the door.

But he found himself unable to move, because sitting in the far corner opposite the door was Draco Malfoy. And sitting there with him, though he could only see the back of her, was Pansy. Their heads were close together, as though whispering, and he could see Pansy's delicate hands wrapped around his.

"Are you going to move sometime this year?" asked a muffled, but obviously irritated voice.

Harry turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw a harried looking, professionally dressed woman on the other side of the door, waiting to exit but being blocked by his presence.

Her raised voice apparently got the attention of a few patrons, including Malfoy and Pansy, because when Harry turned back to look at them again, still unable to believe what he was seeing, they were both staring at him in shock.

His eyes locked with Malfoy's, the grey eyes widened in…fear? Disbelief? The blond stood, clearly intent on coming toward him, but Harry didn't see how far he made it across the restaurant because he turned and fled down the street, nearly taking out a small child as he went around a corner and into a heavily shadowed doorway, and Apparated.

"That was some disappearing act you pulled yesterday."

Harry didn't bother turning around from where he sat at his desk in the back office, still conflicted about whether or not he should be angry at Pansy for choosing sides, or glad that she reconnected with someone that she was so desperately missing.

He knew it was her before she opened her mouth, though, because no one dared slam his front door like that, especially when the shop wasn't even open yet. He might reconsider letting her have the after-hours password.

"Receive your Ministry citation yet for Apparating outside of a designated spot?" She asked, using that snippy tone she always adopted when she was passing judgment on someone.

"It was waiting for me when I got home," he answered, matter-of-factly, but still not bothering to look at her.

"I wondered if you'd gone there. I very nearly went after you, but decided to let you behave like a child and have your sulk in peace."

That got his attention.

"Excuse me?"

"I know exactly what you're thinking, Harry Potter, don't you for one second think that I don't."

"Oh really?" Harry threw down his quill and stood to face her.

"This isn't about taking sides, Harry."

"He didn't just lie to me; he lied to you as well in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't, but I've forgiven him, shown him a bit of compassion – something you seem to have misplaced," she argued, taking a challenging step toward him.

"Compassion?"

"Yes! Compassion!"

"You're barking if you think that I'm going to show Draco Malfoy-"

"Yes, Draco Malfoy! Not Ben Mercier – at least you've finally summoned the courage to say his name!"

He rolled his eyes at her, determined not to give her the satisfaction of a full-on fight, and sat down, going through the motions of whatever it was he had been doing before she interrupted him. At the moment, he couldn't even recall what that was, he was so flustered.

"Go away."

"When did you become such an unfeeling bastard?"

Harry glared at her then, daring her to continue.

"You can forgive me for wanting to throw you into the proverbial lion's den, but you can't forgive Draco? And for what? Making you fall in love with him?"

"I wasn't-"

"The hell you weren't! He hung the moon as far as you were concerned, and if you doubt for a moment that any of what he showed you wasn't entirely-"

"Wasn't entirely what? Lies and deceit?" He shot back at her, standing up again.

"You miss him!" She shouted, her finger poking him hard on the chest. "Just admit it!"

Harry snapped. He couldn't take it anymore. Months of turmoil and people walking on eggshells and, fuck, every moment when he had wished that his Ben were there when Harry had a question about something regarding the books or just to point out something funny in the Prophet – he just couldn't take it anymore!

"Fine, I miss Ben!" He shouted back at her, pulling off his glasses and tossing them onto the desktop before collapsing back into the chair, pressing his fingers against his eyes until he saw stars.

"But Draco is Ben," she said, and Harry heard her kneel next to him, her hand on his knee. "Harry, if you'd only-"

"Only what? Completely blinded myself to the reality that Malfoy conned us all, including you, into believing he was someone he wasn't?" He was so tired all of a sudden, and just wanted to go home and crawl into his bed and under the covers.

"For god's sake, Pansy, he had an entirely made up life! Beauxbatons, all that crap about his poor dead mother-"

Harry heard the crack before he felt the sting that Pansy's slap had left behind. He sat there, dumbfounded, staring up at her. Harry had never seen her so angry.

"Narcissa Malfoy saved your life once. You would do well to remember that," she said through gritted teeth. "She wasn't the cold, unfeeling monster that you've made her out to be, just because that is what you've let yourself become since Luna died."

Harry was too stunned to reply, still reeling from the physical assault and the manifestation of a side to Pansy that he'd never seen up close and personal.

"Draco wants his suitcase back. He left it under the bed. It was his mother's." Pansy pulled her gloves on, clearly preparing to leave. "Try and dig up enough decency inside you to remember how it feels to hold something that once belonged to your mother, and then imagine losing it."

Pansy adjusted her pink cashmere scarf around her neck and turned to leave.

"Pans-"

She stopped, but didn't turn around.

"He said that you can watch the memory, if you haven't already. I debated on whether or not to relay that message to you, because I don't believe that you deserve to see its contents."

And with that, she walked out the door.

Harry rolled the small glass vial between his fingers, wondering how much he'd care if he lost his grip and it dropped to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces. He had permission to view it, he just wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"I don't believe that you deserve to see its contents."

Decision made, Harry stood and went into his study and over to the large cabinet that stored most of his old schoolbooks and, more importantly, the one thing that Dumbledore had left him that he cherished above all others...

He set his old Headmaster's pensieve on the large oak table that sat in the middle of the room, and gently wiped off the thin layer of dust that had accumulated around the rim and inside the bowl from lack of use. He broke the reddish wax seal around the top of the memory vial that kept the cork firmly in place, and exposed the silvery material of what lay inside.

He emptied the contents into the pensieve and, after another moment's hesitation, took a deep breath and let himself be carried away by the magic.

"Your father was not a kind man, Draco."

"I know that, Mother."

Harry's eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, and saw Malfoy sitting next to Narcissa's bedside. She looked physically weak, and not at all like the strong-willed woman he had known from his past. Harry couldn't remember her looking that weak even during the trials after the war. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of her pronounced breathing, the noise rattling and wet as fluid continued to fill her obviously weakened lungs. Why wasn't she in St Mungo's? Why was there no Healer here with her?

Her hand rested in his, and as the moonlight sliced across the bed covers and illuminated their frailty, Harry could help but notice how tiny they were, like they would break at the slightest pressure.

"I have but two regrets in life, and both concern him."

"Mother, please. You should be resting," the other man's voice said softly.

Harry's growing realisation of what he was witnessing made him ill at ease. This was Malfoy's last memory of his mother, he was sure of it, and he had the urge to flee back to the comfort of his study. Would he want Malfoy to see the last moments of Lily Potter's life?

Why did Malfoy want him to see this?

"I regret having allowed him to be the cold, unfeeling father that he was." She paused, taking in as deep a breath as her ravaged lungs would allow. "And that I let him influence my own treatment of you."

Malfoy said nothing, but Harry saw his sorrow-filled gaze change to one of forgiveness.

"You are a wonderful son, Draco Scorpius Malfoy, and-" Narcissa halted, overcome by wet, wracking coughs. When they abated, he reached for the damp flannel on the bedside table to gently wipe away the blood-flecked spittle from her mouth and chin.

"Mother, please, you should rest. You do not need to-"

"I do," she interrupted, "I need to say these things, and damn me for not having said them sooner – for needing to say them at all. If I had been a good mother-"

"You are."

"Do not lie to me when we both know this may be our last conversation." Her tone was gentle, but her words no less severe.

Malfoy stood and adjusted the pillows behind her head.

"It isn't a lie. I never wanted for anything," he protested.

"Except affection."

Harry saw Malfoy pause, his movements apparently stopped by what must have been a stunning declaration.

"That isn't true either, Mother."

"Do you remember our excursions to Salisbury, Draco?"

"Of course."

Harry took a few steps closer, eager to hear every word at the mention of the town that 'Ben' had taken him this past summer.

"Those are my favourite memories of all. You and I, just the two of us. You were such a well-behaved boy, Draco…too well-behaved, sometimes."

"It's a good thing Father isn't here to hear you say that."

"It's a good thing that he isn't here at all. You are free of him, my darling Draco, and I couldn't be happier for you."

"I need you to do something for me."

"What is it?"

"Find Harry Potter."

Harry wasn't sure who was more shocked at that moment, himself or Malfoy in the memory.

"Why?"

"He has been through so much, suffered so much at the hands of your father and the Dark Lord."

"But there is nothing that I could do for him now."

"You must try. I may have saved his life, but he saved yours twice, and a life debt is still owed to him."

"Potter isn't in any danger, Mother."

"There is more than one way to save a man, my son. You will find a way."

"But…how?"

"You saved me, Draco, just by being here. My match with Lucius was not a happy one at first, but when you were born I was so elated and overjoyed, that my affections for your father grew more and more. It wasn't until you had grown a bit that I started to see glimpses of his cold, unfeeling nature." She began to cough again, and Malfoy held the flannel against her mouth. Harry noticed that when he pulled it away, there was a significant amount of blood on it. The other man noticed it as well.

"When you went off to school each year, I counted down the days and hours until you returned home. There were years when the only kindness, the only warmth that was felt in this house was when you walked through those doors and into my arms."

"Mother," Draco started to say, and Harry could see tears streaming down his face, his heart aching at the sight.

Harry realised that part of that ache came from jealousy. He would have given anything to have a memory like this with one or both of his parents, as gut-wrenching as it was. It was something. He actually started to envy Draco this moment, because even though it was just a memory now, it wasn't always – it was once something real and tangible, and Draco would always remember the sight, smell, and feel of this horrible, horrible night.

"You saved me by being a wonderful son. I know that you have regrets of your own, but I never doubted you. I knew that you would one day do the right thing. You were so brave that day when they asked you to identify the Potter boy, and I knew that you knew. In that moment, you made the choice that I always knew you would make, son."

"I wasn't brave. I was terrified," Draco answered, and Harry recognised the sound of a grown man trying to hold back a sob and failing. It was the same sound that Arthur Weasley made when he stood over the dead body of his son, Fred.

Harry wanted to badly to reach out and touch Draco, then.

"It isn't real bravery if you're not frightened."

"Please don't leave me, Mother." Draco wept openly now. "You're all that I have."

"You have so much to offer, friendship and companionship and love. I know your heart, you are my son."

Draco slumped over, crying unashamedly and resting his head against Narcissa's shoulder, his face hidden from Harry's view. He wanted so badly to go over and comfort the man, his arms ached with the need of it. Draco looked so small just then.

Narcissa's free hand reached up to brush against Draco's hair soothingly.

"Find him, Draco. Find him and see if he has joy in his life. Happiness is temporary, but joy is not. After everything that your father took from him, we owe it to him to try and give some of it back. The debts that we owe the Potter boy cannot be numbered, and what we took from him cannot be measured, but you will find a way, and maybe then, you can find a little joy of your own."

Harry saw Narcissa close her eyes then, as though finally resting. After several minutes, Harry saw the rhythm of her breathing slow, then her fingers stilled and her hand fell limply against the duvet.

And she was gone.

Draco raised his head, and looked at her, his eyes bloodshot. Harry felt an unexpected sense of dread – unexpected because of whom he was feeling it for.

"Mother?"

Draco waited for her to respond, but Harry knew that she wouldn't.

"Mother?" he said again, quieter but more desperate.

After several minutes of oppressive silence, Harry, frozen in place, saw Draco rise from where he sat, still holding onto his mother's hand, and bent to kiss her forehead. He inhaled deeply and looked down on her, arranging her arms into a more comfortable position, laying one hand atop the other, and then turned and walked toward the door of her room.

Right toward Harry, and looking right through him.

"Draco…" he heard himself say past the stone lodged in his throat, knowing the man couldn't hear him but compelled to say it nonetheless.

Just as they were about to collide, Harry felt the harsh pull from the pensieve as the memory ended, and found himself back in his study.

"Please tell me where he is, Hermione."

"Hello to you, too, Harry – you're dreadfully late."

"I know. I'll explain later. I just need…you told Pansy where he was. I need to know."

Hermione looked at him appraisingly, and Harry could see the internal debate going on inside her head. No doubt Pansy had spoken to her about their argument, from which their friendship still had not recovered, and was trying to decide on what was best for Harry. He both loved and loathed that about her in turn – loved it when it saved his arse, but loathed it when it conflicted with his own wants.

And right now, he wanted – needed – to see Draco.

"Just tell him, 'Mione. For chrissakes, look at his face," Ron said sympathetically, walking up behind her and giving Harry a commiserating shrug.

"He's at Malfoy Manor."

It wasn't where he had expected Draco to have gone after Harry threw him out all those months ago, but upon consideration, it was the most logical place…hiding in plain sight, as it were, in the most obvious of places that, for that very reason, Harry wouldn't have even considered.

He also suspected that Draco had no where else to go.

Harry had expected to end up on the outskirts of the Manor grounds, but Apparating instead landed him practically on the doorstep. He turned to look out at the grounds - gone were the imposing iron gates and leylandii hedges that bordered the property. He then checked to make sure that the suitcase he carried was still all there, when he was startled by the front door being opened.

"The Master is not home. Please to be going back to where you is coming from."

A short, rather plump house elf stood in front of him, looking up at Harry with a stern expression. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, and dressed in a smart little houndstooth suit, complete with waistcoat and a matching cravat around what little neck the fat elf possessed.

"Um, I'm here to see Draco."

"I says that he is not here. Please to be going."

"Do you know when he's coming back?"

"That is none of stranger's business. Please to be-"

"That'll do, Alficus. Please show Mr. Potter inside."

"As Master wishes," the house elf called Alficus relented.

The portly little elf stepped aside and beckoned Harry to enter the main foyer area, and Harry approached a massive round table made from some wood he'd never seen before – the grain was an odd, swirling pattern that Harry didn't know occurred in nature. There was an equally huge vase in the middle, bursting open at the top and spilling out unusually large white chrysanthemums and soft pink amaryllis blooms. Beyond the table was a double-entry staircase that must have been, at its most narrow point, at least fifteen feet wide. The room was warm and bright, a massive sparkling chandelier hanging from a ceiling that must have been five stories high.

His attention, however, was focused on the man across the room. His stance was guarded as he stood there, dressed in flattering dark grey trousers and jumper, the light cream colour making Draco's hair appear blonder than Harry remembered.

The sound of snapping fingers from below got his attention, and he looked down to find Alficus holding out his hands expectantly.

"He means to take your cloak," Draco said softly.

"Oh. Right," Harry said, setting the suitcase down on the table before undoing the fastenings of his heavy winter cloak.

"Will stranger be needing a room?"

"What?"

"He's confused by the suitcase," Draco explained, but the look on his face said that he wasn't confused at all as he stared at it. "Kindly leave us, Alficus."

The house elf disappeared, along with Harry's cloak, and he was alone with Draco, suddenly at a loss for what to say or do now that he was actually standing in the same room with him..

"Hermione told me where you were," he blurted out, unable to take the silence any longer.

"I figured as much."

Draco continued to stare at him warily, still not moving from where he stood by the large, imposing staircase.

"I, um…I brought this for you."

Harry retrieved Narcissa's case from the table, handling it gingerly and taking a few tentative steps forward.

"Thank you, I…it's one of the few things that I have left from her."

Draco still hadn't moved to take the suitcase from him.

"Draco…"

"Would you like something to drink? Some tea, or a warm brandy perhaps?"

"As long as it's not Firewhiskey," Harry said, instantly regretting it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Draco looked at the floor, but Harry could see the flash of hurt that crossed his face.

After watching that memory the night before, he now knew exactly what Draco looked like when he was in pain.

"Sorry. Stupid thing to say, I…"

"You've no need to apologise for anything, Potter."

They seemed to be at an impasse – with Draco refusing move an inch, literal or figurative.

So Harry did what he always did, and acted on instinct.

"I'd love a coffee, if you have any. Or tea is fine if-"

"Alficus," Draco called out, and the elf appeared at his side instantly, "Mr. Potter would like coffee. Cream, one sugar."

"You remembered."

"Yes."

Harry placed his hands in his pockets to try and keep the nervous fidgeting to a minimum.

"Can we talk?"

Draco didn't answer, but after a moment's consideration, turned and walked through two large double doors that, Harry remembered from years past, led to the drawing room.

It was in that room that he once took Draco's wand.

Harry took the other man's silence as tacit permission, and followed.

"Would you have accepted any help from me if I had come to you as myself?"

"I don't know."

"You wouldn't have."

"But we'll never get to know that now, will we? You never gave me that choice."

Draco inhaled deeply before setting his cup down, turning the full weight of his gaze on Harry.

"My father murdered your wife. That alone, on top of all the other history between us-"

"I may have hated you in school, Draco, but most of that had nothing at all to do with your father and everything to do with you," Harry said, leaning forward. "I learned early on that the sins of the father aren't necessarily those of the son – Severus Snape taught me that if nothing else."

"It was the safest assumption to make."

Harry sat back, realising that was an argument which he'd have to let alone. For now.

"How long had you been…following me?"

"It started a couple of months after my mother died."

"But that was…you didn't show up in my shop until the following March."

Draco nodded, and Harry didn't bother hiding his surprise at the length of – what, time? Research? – that he had put into it.

"Was it every day?"

"Not at first, no. It took me a while to…master the charm that changed my appearance."

"So you were just around, some random stranger at the pub or following me down the street, or…did you ever go into my home?" Harry's eyes widened at the very thought.

"No, but I did sometimes watch you in your garden," Draco admitted. "That was when I first saw Pansy."

Harry fiddled with the cuff of his jumper, wondering about all the times that Draco must have been right there beside him, or sitting at the next table over, and he never knew, never suspected.

"I overheard your conversation with Hermione the day that you told her about the examiner's visit and you tried to convince her to help."

"And you saw that as your way in."

"Yes. It was a small thing, maybe inconsequential in the long run, but it was something that you clearly needed and that I could do for you."

"But…that means…you weren't going to stay, were you? You never meant for Ben to be around forever."

Harry leaned forward again, catching the other man's gaze. Other things started to fall into place…all the instruction, even the gift of the self-filing cabinet…he had already been planning for his departure, even then.

"No."

"I see."

"Not at first. But…"

"But?"

"Certain complications arose, and I found myself more entangled than I ever intended to become."

"Entangled with me."

"Yes."

Harry paused, then remembered another detail he had forgotten.

"Where did you disappear to every Sunday?"

"My mother's grave. And then I would come here and walk through the gardens. They were her pride and joy." Draco looked in the direction of the foyer, and Harry assumed that the flowers in the large vase were his mother's doing.

Harry stood and walked over toward the door, and Draco assumed that their visit had come to an end. He called for Alficus.

"Please bring Mr. Potter his cloak."

"Yours, too," Harry added.

"Pardon?"

"It's cold outside."

Draco looked confused.

"Am I going out?"

"Yes. I want to show you something."

"It's late, Potter," he said wearily.

Harry had a feeling that the visit had been harder on Draco than it was on him.

"You owe me."

Draco nodded in defeat, and directed Alficus to retrieve both their cloaks and take them to the foyer. Harry walked out of the room, and Draco turned to where they had been sitting and picked up his mother's suitcase, opening it.

Inside were all the neat bundles of newspaper and magazine clippings that she'd acquired over the years, still tied with string as though untouched, but what Draco was really looking for was the memory vial. It was there, still in its silk pouch, and Draco frowned at the realisation that Potter must not have taken the liberty of viewing it after all, even though he knew that Pansy had relayed his message.

"You coming?" he heard Harry say from the doorway, winter cloak already on.

"Yes."

Draco quickly removed his hand from Harry's arm as they reached their destination. They were in the middle of a large grassy area, bracketed by trees taller than the hedges that bordered the Manor grounds. Though the moon was high in the sky, the blanket of snow on the ground was reflected in the cloudy sky, making it appear hardly like nighttime at all.

"I love it when it's like this," Harry said, "still light out even though it's near midnight."

"Where are we?"

"It's called The Long Walk," Harry said. "See that structure way over there?"

Draco followed Harry's line of sight and saw a castle far off in the distance.

"That's-"

"Windsor Castle," Draco finished.

"Yeah."

"I've been here before," Draco said, truly looking around him for the first time as the faint recollection persisted. "When I was a boy."

"With your mother?"

"Both of my parents, actually. It was summer, and they…they took me around to all of the Malfoy properties, past and present."

"What did they own here?" Harry asked.

"Windsor Castle."

Harry cocked his head in disbelief. "You're serious?"

"Yes," Draco said, matter-of-factly. "One of my ancestors, back when it was Malfoi built it back in 1050. The Muggles only think that William the First built it in 1070. It was when our financial and societal futures were pretty much set in stone, until my father managed to bollocks it all up, of course."

Draco turned his attention back to Harry, unsure how to read the strange expression on the other man's face.

"Your family built Windsor Castle, and basically made a killing when they sold it to the King of England."

"Yes."

"That is…" and Harry started to laugh, "completely unsurprising, actually."

"Everyone has to start somewhere," Draco said defensively.

"You Malfoys do everything in a big way, don't you?"

Harry was still laughing, but he lightly nudged Draco with his arm, wanting him to understand that he wasn't laughing at him.

"Sometimes to our own detriment, yes."

Harry was pleased to see some of the tension leave Draco's guarded stance.

He started to walk slowly through the snow, waiting for the other man to follow his lead before picking up the pace a bit.

"Luna and I used to come here almost every day. We would Apparate between those two trees over there," Harry pointed, "and walk to the end of the clearing. We'd talk about our day, or sometimes not talk at all."

Draco maintained his silence, but Harry knew that he was listening.

"Pretty much what you and I are doing now."

Silence reigned still, and then…

"Why did you bring me here, Potter?"

"I prefer Harry, actually."

Draco didn't respond to that, and Harry looked over to see his lips in a tight line, clearly growing frustrated.

"Have you ever heard the phrase, I'm just chasing time?"

Draco nodded, not sure if he liked the direction this was headed in or not.

"After Luna died, I felt like that's all I did. Actually, I felt that way a lot of the time before I killed Voldemort, too. Constantly chasing time." Harry kicked at a snowball on the ground, a remnant from whoever had been on the grounds earlier that day, enjoying the new-fallen snow. "It went too fast, or too slow – things never went how I planned, something happening to speed time up, or make it move at a snail's pace. People got hurt, or worse."

Harry stopped and sighed, wondering if he was making any sense. It didn't feel like it.

"When Luna was gone, I felt like I was constantly chasing missed moments in the back of my mind. Anything that, if I could reverse them, might get me home that day just five minutes earlier. I didn't even realise that I was doing it until…well, you know how Pansy can be."

Harry thought he saw the hint of a smile on Draco's face.

"I miss Ben."

Draco's smile disappeared in an instant.

"With Ben, time wasn't too slow or too fast. It was just right. I didn't need to chase it anymore. Everything was…right. And it hadn't been in a long time."

He wished that Draco would just look at him.

"I miss my friend and, I think, he might miss me, too?"

"And if he did?" Draco asked quietly.

"Well, I'd quite like my friend back. If he did, in fact, miss me, that is."

"And what about what your friend did to you?" Grey eyes looked off into the distance.

"If I learned anything from Luna, I learned about how to forgive someone. Most people say that they've forgiven another person for whatever wrong they've done, but they haven't, not really. Luna, she…it was as though you'd never hurt her. She gave out second chances like Molly Weasley gives out woolen jumpers," Harry chuckled. "There was never lingering resentment, or snide reminders. She thought that guilt was consequence enough, one of the ugliest human emotions next to hate. I'm not sure how she ever put up with me, actually – I carry guilt around like spare knuts."

Draco did look at him then, and Harry was taken aback at the vulnerability being offered to him.

"And you're willing to forgive him, just like that?"

"I think that my friend and I, we've both suffered enough consequence for one lifetime."

"I see."

Harry stopped and turned, reaching for Draco's arm and facing him head-on, wanting to shut out any distractions.

"Do you, Draco?"

He looked away without answering.

"Someone once said that happiness was temporary, but joy was not. I'm tired of temporary."

Draco did look at him then, and felt his mouth fall open at the obvious implication that Harry had viewed the memory…he hadn't ignored it after all.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Draco," he said softly.

Draco nodded his head, too afraid to speak, afraid of what would come out, so overwhelmed he was by Harry speaking her last words to him.

"It's snowing."

Draco looked up at the bright night sky, and then felt Harry's fingers, still warm from when they were inside his gloves, against the side of his neck, slowly moving toward his jaw and drawing his face toward him.

When their lips met, oh so gently, it was as though the world had stopped. Nothing else existed except for him, slow-falling snow melting against his nose and cheeks, and Harry's soft, firm lips moving in tandem with his own.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but when Harry pulled away, it was much too soon.

Is this what it felt like, Draco wondered? No longer chasing time?

"I wanted to see if you tasted the same," Harry whispered.

"Do I?"

"Less Firewhiskey this time."

Draco didn't try to stop the small smile that crossed his face at the imperfect memory.

"Sometimes, it was all that I could do to not think about that kiss," Harry said, suddenly sounding shy. "Ill-timed as it was."

"I wanted to-"

But Draco didn't get to finish telling Harry what he wanted – that he had wanted Harry, but wasn't willing to hurt him back then, even though it was all for naught and he ended up hurting him anyway – because Harry's mouth was on his again, and this time it was less about gentle forgiveness, and more about need and tongues battling for dominance, a battle that Draco gladly conceded, and if Harry were to let go of him right then, he might float away.

So Draco held on for dear life.

"Walk with me for a bit?"

Harry felt Draco squeeze his hand in response as they started to make their way down the same path that he used to walk with Luna when she was still alive. He hoped that she was out there, somewhere, and could see him now…and hoped that she was pleased that he had finally moved on. With Draco.

Looking over at his friend – well, they certainly weren't friends anymore, he supposed, since he didn't know any friends that were willing to kiss him like Draco just had – he smiled at the fact that, unlike the first time, there were no feelings of shame or guilt or betrayal that lingered afterward. Luna had been gone for many years now, and Pansy was right…it was time for him to start living his life again.

And there on the path, the snow falling all around them as a new year was about to begin, a warm hand enclosed in his own, Harry thought that if this was living, he might want to live forever, as long as he had Draco there with him.

Maybe it was time for Draco to start living his life for himself again, too.

Off in the distance, they heard the faint cheers and hollering from what was apparently a nearby gathering to celebrate the New Year. He reached into his cloak and inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a familiar watch, making sure that Draco noticed him checking the time. "It's midnight," he said, and leaned over to give Draco a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Happy New Year, Draco."

"Happy New Year, Harry," the other man repeated, thinking that it might actually live up to its adjective this time, and not hiding his satisfaction that Harry had the Patek Phillipe pocket watch that Draco had sent him back in October when things were so very different between them.

"That's a stunning timepiece you have."

"A friend gave it to me. A very dear friend."

Harry wanted to kiss him them, but he didn't because he wanted their next kiss to be indoors, preferably at his home, and if it happened while in close proximity to his bed, then that would be okay, too.

"So what are your plans for 2010?"

"I don't know. Decide on whether or not to keep the Manor, maybe look for a new place to live and find employment…spend time with you."

"I hear that there's a clock shop in London looking for a bookkeeper."

"Is that so?" Draco laughed, still feeling like his feet weren't quite touching the ground.

"The owner lost his best employee a few months back, and things have sort of gone into disarray."

"You're hopeless, Harry."

They continued to walk in comfortable silence.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why Ben Mercier? The name, I mean. It seems so…plain. For you."

"An artist with the last name of Mercier did many of the paintings in the portrait hall at the Manor. I just like the way it sounds."

"And Ben?"

Draco hoped that Harry couldn't see his cheeks redden from more than just the cold. "You'll laugh."

"I won't, I promise."

"You work in a clock shop."

Harry clearly wasn't making the connection on his own.

"Big Ben?"

Harry's laughter filled the air, and Draco didn't think he'd ever hear a sound so perfect.

"So," Harry smirked after he'd finished having a laugh at Draco's expense, "how big is it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Draco said, shoving him lightly, pleased when Harry sidled right back in place, their arms tightly entwined.

"Hmm, yes I would, and I think…" he paused, then adding on tentatively, "that I'm about to find out."

It sounded like more of a question than a statement.

"Harry?" Draco started, pulling the other man close, resting his forehead against Harry's shoulder, "Take me home."

"Don't let go."

"I won't."

No one was around to see the two men vanish into thin air, their footsteps in the snow, full of stops and starts, moments of distance and togetherness, being the only evidence left behind to show that Harry and Draco had been there; the encounter frozen in time as long as the snow remained…but forever in the memories of the two men about to start a new path in life.

For those who are interested, you can see the real Patek Phillipe Supercomplication creation, which really did sell at auction to an anonymous buyer for just over $11 million dollars (but in December 1999 rather than June 1980), here. For horologists, it truly is a magnificent piece. It took Phillipe four years to create it.

~*~

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