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Harry Potter is eighteen years old and he is not okay.

He rarely sleeps, because whenever he does, his brain traps him back into all the nightmares he thought he'd left behind, and some others that he's never had before. Instead, he cooks. He likes cooking.

The ghosts that come, then, are always friendly. They ask him how his day has been—not terrible, compared to some of the ones that came before—and tell him stories about when they were alive—long summer days that meant freedom, weddings without death. Many praise his cooking, as well—Mary Jewry hums in approval of his treacle tart.

And—a rarity—they never, never mention the scars.

Ron and Hermione don't know about this, of course. He renounced the Mastery of Death, he renounced the ghosts. He chose sanity—or whatever looked like it at the time—over solace, and there are powers he's no longer supposed to have, things he's no longer supposed to see. What remains, then, must be his own mind.

But, either way, the ghosts only ever stay for as long as it takes him to finish a recipe.

He eats alone.

The Potter family tree is hanging in the living room of the Potters’ ancestral home—in Ottery St Catchpole, reassuringly far from Godric's Hollow.

Harry follows his own bloodline with a finger, over his own bright spot in the tree and his parents' dull ones, over grandmothers he never knew, grandfathers with increasingly unrecognisable headgear, dozens of wizards and witches with dark hair and dark eyes and the richest of clothes. These are the people who made him, and he knows nothing of them, of their culture—the culture that is also his, but that he could never claim. He's a stranger in his own body, in his own family.

He finds recipes from Maharashtra, Gujarat, Bihar, and his kitchen is filled with smells that he could've never imagined.

The ghosts still come, but these speak in languages he doesn't know and yet understands, greet him with a small bow and their palms pressed together as if in prayer, smile when Harry says his full name.

Harry makes upma one morning, and as he is mixing in the roasted rava, the ghost of Shanta Kulkarni examines him from the corner of her eye, considering.

"You may ask your questions to your ancestors," she says, pointing at a floorboard with her thumb. "They have been waiting."

He lets the spoon fall, startled, and she's gone before he can say a word.

Later, he rips the floorboard out and digs a thick book from under the dirt, its pages yellow from age but carefully preserved. It contains no spells, but it does contain magic—and it is only part of that magic that allows him to read it at all, because English is scarce in its pages. It's full of recipes that Harry has never heard about—with more spices than he thinks anyone could keep in their pantry—cardamom, ginger, coriander, turmeric, so many more—and in the margins, dozens of different handwritings fight for space.

It is always Pathak, Harry realises, Nisha or Niraj or Kartik, but always Pathak. And then there is Anjali Potter, signing her own recipes about a quarter through the book, and from then on there is Pathak only in old notes in the margins, a relic of the past.

Padfoot says he will never eat anything else , JP comments, in the margins of a recipe near the end of the book. He also happens to be allergic to cumin. Hah .

Harry follows the English letters with his fingers, smiles despite himself.

A week later, Hermione opens the pantry and stills, gazing at the lines of bottles full of spices with something akin to wonder in her eyes.

The oldest of Harry's grandparents is called Nisha.

She wrote the first recipe, back when they were Pathaks, and she's drawn into being the moment Harry begins cooking it.

"You're not real," he tells her, tired and sick with lack of sleep, and she laughs.

"This power does not come from a stone, Hari," she says in her soft, vivid language, as she watches him cook, "pretty and old as it might be. It comes from your bloodline, and it is no curse—it is the highest of honours. I am as real as I was, when I was, because I am again."

He doesn't ask her how the power came to be, too torn between relief and fury. His mind isn't worse than it ever was, but—this is yet another thing that makes him different, yet another thing that they'd want to use him for, if they knew.

They cannot know.

The instant he finishes the last step of her recipe, she disappears.

Harry considers the meal before him, far too abundant for one person—one used to scraps nobody else wanted, scraps he had to fight for. He casts a warming charm on the bowl and steps into the floo.

Ron and Hermione are not they.

It starts, really starts, a week later—with Hermione's uncle.

"I don't mean to pressure you at all," she says, wide-eyed, tenser than the moment merits. "It's just- oh, Harry, it just happened so suddenly- We never really got to- well, you know, and if you could-"

"I don't know if you'll be able to see," Harry replies, realising for the first time that he really does not know. "I don't even know how it works, 'Mione."

So he calls grandmother Nisha again, and slumps with relief—or resignation, perhaps—when Ron and Hermione stare, silent except for Ron's quiet curses. He calls her and he asks, and the most incredible thing is- she answers.

"The book is for family," she tells him, side-eyeing his friends like she isn't quite sure she likes them knowing it exists at all. "You could bring other dead with it, but-" she blinks, face twisted into a grimace for an instant, "it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right, Hari." She's too polite to tell him not to do it outright, he supposes, but he gets the message either way. "Bring others back with the food they loved - that will be right. You must think of them as you cook," she adds. "You must know them as they were in life. Or you will draw whichever of the dead is closest to you."

They have more than enough food for the day, but after Harry's grandmother vanishes, Hermione looks right at him and says, softly, He liked lasagne, and Harry- Harry goes out to buy some beef.

The word spreads, eventually, although it isn’t Ron or Hermione's fault.

Harry tells Neville first, in one of their recently instaured monthly meet-ups, and then he lets him tell Ginny, who immediately asks him to explain it to all the Weasleys, and from then on, what once was one more of the secrets weighing on Harry's shoulders rapidly becomes- almost common knowledge, in his friends’ circle.

Friends’ circle.

Which is why, when Draco Malfoy shows up at the door of the Potters’ ancestral home—which he's not supposed to know it even exists —, it takes Harry three full seconds to react.

Then there is arguing—of course, because there always is—and insults flying, but Malfoy freezes when Harry takes out his wand and Harry knows what's in his eyes is not fear—it's never been—but a realisation of some sort.

"How are you here?" Harry asks, teeth clenched, and it's maybe the third time he's asked, but finally, Malfoy deigns to answer.

"Weasley sent me," Malfoy says, and takes advantage of Harry’s shock to push past him and into the house. "Not your Weasel, of course- William did."

"Bill," Harry repeats, incredulous. "Bill sent you. Of all the-"

"He sent a letter," Malfoy insists, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance. It is only now that it hits Harry- he's not getting his wand out. A wand that Harry knows for a fact that Malfoy has, because he was the one to send it back. "But I think he might've used one of those dreadful Egyptian owls of his- I did warn him that some breeds are so daft that they insist on making the full trip back to Egypt before setting off for the recipient-"

"Malfoy," Harry says, slowly lowering his wand. "Why would Bill send you here?"

Malfoy sighs impatiently and makes Harry follow him into the kitchen, where he takes a seat in the only musty old chair Harry doesn't like but doesn't dare throw out—it belonged to his family , and he can't, he can't.

"Because we worked on a common project together a month ago, and we've been in-" Malfoy winces, as if it physically pains him to say it, "friendly contact ever since. And I-" another wince, this one accompanied with the slight twitch of an eyelid, "need help."

"You need help," Harry repeats, slowly sitting down, feeling his hands shake with half-suppressed rage and foreboding. "From me."

Malfoy looks down his pointy nose at him, and he snarls, and he insults Harry's hearing and his character and many other things that he knows nothing about, but in the end - he says yes.

And that's how Harry knows that it's serious.

Draco Malfoy sits in Harry's kitchen, looking sullen, drinking a cup of coffee that Harry made him several minutes ago and that he has been too busy talking to insult.

Harry thinks of him, standing pale and tense as Lucius Malfoy's sentence was announced. It had been possibly only the second time since Harry's known him that he'd thought, Oh, right, he's human. And Malfoy had actually thanked Hermione after—stiff and looking like he'd rather be doing anything else, of course—, perfectly aware that her anti-Dementor's Kiss campaign had saved his father's life.

And then someone—a guard, someone from the Wizengamot, an old enemy - or possibly all three—had decided that they didn't agree with the Azkaban sentence. Harry still can't bring himself to be sorry for Lucius Malfoy, but it was surprisingly easy, even then, to save some pity for his son.

Malfoy could want to speak with his father for all kinds of evil reasons, but- this, this is one of the few scenarios in which Harry's willing to accept he might also... not have any evil reasons at all.

He's human, Harry thinks again, right as Malfoy begins to whine about Harry's coffee.

"Are you going to help or not, Potter?" Malfoy asks, when he runs out of things to rant about, jaw tense. "Because I certainly haven’t come here for some coffee and chit-chat-"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry says, tiredly. And then, because Malfoy's eyes are cold but unnervingly bright—as bright as they'd been back in Sixth year, "I'll help."

Lucius Malfoy's favourite dessert was Gurdyroot cake.

"When it's properly cooked, it's a treat, Potter," Malfoy says, when he sees Harry grimacing, even though his own nose is scrunching up in disgust.

The recipe is, predictably, pretentious and near-impossible to make.

Harry has to search for the ingredients because Malfoy cannot obtain them on his own—not right now, with his family's shaky standing—and Malfoy has to accompany him because Harry has absolutely no idea of what he's doing.

Needless to say, neither of them is pleased with the arrangement.

Ron and Hermione are temporarily residing in Grimmauld Place.

The faces they make when Harry visits, bringing Draco Malfoy in tow, make Harry wish very badly for a camera.

"Do we have to talk to him about Quidditch over a cuppa, now?" Ron hisses, gripping Harry's arm in desperation. "Mate-"

"Oh, he's not here to see you," Harry replies, and feels a smile, wide and unfamiliar, spread across his face. "He's here to see Crookshanks."

It is a little-known fact that a kneazle's saliva allows wizards to manipulate incorporeal, rare potion ingredients. Harry has become very familiar with the recipes that require such ingredients over the past few weeks, and the one that will bring Lucius Malfoy back to life—for a short while—is one of them.

Crookshanks regards them curiously, but unsurprised—surprise is not an emotion one expects to find in a cat at all, but Hermione's somehow manages to make it look as if he could perfectly express it, and is merely choosing not to.

Malfoy cajoles, and taunts, and tries to trick the kneazle into licking his fingers, but Crookshanks merely keeps looking at him. Harry never would've thought that a cat, of all things, would be the one to bring Malfoy so close to tears.

Then again, it's not about him at all, is it.

"Please," Malfoy says, after everything else has failed, so quietly that Harry isn't certain he hasn't imagined it. "It's for my father. I just need- I just need to ask -"

Crookshanks huffs and butts his head against Malfoy's stretched hand, then turns to softly pad away.

As he leaves, he licks Harry's fingers.

They get a dragon's blessing next, with Charlie Weasley's help.

None of them know what a dragon's blessing is, exactly, but Harry is not one to underestimate a giant, scaly monster when he's in front of it, so he just asks. And when that does nothing, he makes Charlie ask.

When the dragon leans down and breathes a blazing burst of fire right into Malfoy's face, Harry is still with shock. Not because of fear—the flame doesn't burn , somehow, isn't even scorching Malfoy's eyebrows—but because Draco Malfoy stays where he is, shaking all over and staring into the dragon's eyes, and he braves the fire.

Harry moves, as quietly as he knows how, and grabs some of the flame with tentative fingers.

Fleur Weasley invites them to stay for dinner.

Since she has just kindly surrendered a strand of her hair for their cake— Malfoy's , it's Malfoy's bloody cake—, they're not about to refuse.

Bill has a great lot to talk about with Malfoy, apparently, and Harry politely listens to Fleur's ranting about a new Ministry policy, but his eyes never leave Malfoy. Malfoy, who is- not being a wanker.

Malfoy, who, after a particularly sickly-sweet gesture between Fleur and Bill, meets Harry's eyes across the table and rolls his eyes in commiseration. Like he and Harry are in this together.

Like they're friends.

It is not hard to find Peeves.

McGonagall lets them into Hogwarts as casually as if they were still students, and neither of them has forgotten the places where the poltergeist likes to dwell. Peeves, of course, makes himself useful by being so much of a pain in the arse that they can hear him coming from two corridors away.

Before Harry can even open his mouth—to say what, he isn't quite sure—, Peeves takes a look at the pair of them and laughs.

"My, my," he croons, delighted. "Just like it was back then, isn't it? Potty-Potter and Mouldy-Malfoy, making moon-eyes at each other across the hall, obsessed with each other—good ol' Peevesy always knew there was something there, hoh hoh. Potty and Mouldy, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i -"

Harry lifts a hand to swipe at him, despite knowing how useless the gesture is, and that is the only reason he finds himself grabbing onto something slimy and soft, something that he cannot see, but that he can push into the vial he's carrying easily enough.

One sincere thing, from a poltergeist.

Harry tries not to think about it.

The last ingredient they need is a secret.

They're back in Harry's kitchen, surrounded by everything they need to make the cake that will get Draco Malfoy out of Harry's life once again, and Harry holds open an empty vial and says—perhaps more ruthlessly than Hermione would've liked, "Your father, your secret."

Malfoy's face falls, and Harry can see the very moment he decides it's not worth it. It's not only a secret. It's a secret, freely offered to someone he considers his enemy, to use for a favour he's being given.

But then Malfoy- Malfoy takes Harry's left hand and forces him to lift the vial until it's right under his chin, like he's about to spit his next words into it. It's not that easy, of course. Secrets are heavy things, but also sneaky ones—they don't want to be caught, and Harry will have to grab this one right from Malfoy's lips before it slides away. It will be meek like a domesticated beast after that, though—after it knows it has lost.

Harry breathes in deeply, taking in the miracle in front of him. Draco Malfoy, for once not choosing pride.

"I wish-" Malfoy starts, softly, before his voice becomes a whip, "I wish you would've just taken my bloody hand."

It is impossible to tell, whether Malfoy intended Harry to understand—a piece of his mask breaking, or more probably, yet another reproach—or whether he assumed Harry wouldn't remember. But Harry does remember. He remembers it just fine. It's one of those moments in his life that he looks back on and thinks, Here it started. And thinks, What else could have I done.

He doesn't wonder now. He doesn't have time to. He only presses his fingers against Malfoy's lips—ignores the hot breath against his skin—and gently takes the secret from them.

It's warm, as if it were alive somehow, and it curls around Harry's fingers like that's the only place it's ever wanted to be.

Harry begins to prepare the ingredients for the batter and tries to ignore Malfoy's eyes on his back.

"Why are you helping me?" Malfoy suddenly says, but Harry doesn't turn to look.

It's not a question he wants to answer. It's not even a question he knows how to answer, not unless he reaches further inside himself than he's ever wanted to see. The knowledge is there, but it ties his stomach up in knots.

Before Malfoy can say anything else, Harry starts on the batter.

The instant the flour touches the bowl, he feels something coming, something building in the middle of his chest and spreading down to his toes. It's not like any other magic he's ever made.

There is someone else in the room, someone who wasn't there before.

Malfoy is completely silent.

Harry drops the Veela hair into the batter, and as he watches it turn the dragon's fire golden, two sets of footsteps leave the room.

It is hours later that the cake is finally done.

Harry hesitates very briefly, distracted by the power he’s invoked as it leaves his body—somewhere close, a dead man flickers and dies for a second time—but in the end, he gingerly puts the Gurdyroot cake down and sets the table for two. He's placing the spoons on top of the napkins when he realises there are two points of heat digging into his back once again.

"Why did you help me?" Draco Malfoy asks, and there is something in his voice that makes Harry turn to face him.

Malfoy's eyes are intent and bright. They're not hiding anything, for once, but those are not eyes one can ever learn to read completely—even when they’re like this. Malfoy’s eyes are an extinct language with no Rosetta Stone.

"It's a secret," Harry replies, feeling a bit like a child.

But Malfoy doesn't laugh, or mock him at all. He just keeps staring, and he steps into Harry's space—too close to be able to punch him, if that was ever on the menu - and Harry wouldn't bet against it—and grabs the cuffs of Harry's shirt so tightly that his fingers turn whiter than bone.

"I'll give you one in return," he says, nearly hisses —Malfoy’s always at his harshest when he’s afraid—and then he leans in.

And just like that, Harry Potter lets Draco Malfoy kiss him.

The Gurdyroot cake is, surprisingly, delicious.

Even if it is rather hard to eat with only his left hand.