FIC: Saganaki & Baklava (Harry Potter/Anthony Goldstein)
Title: Saganaki & Baklava
Author: blithelybonny
Characters: Harry Potter/Anthony Goldstein, Ginny Weasley, and the Potter kids.
Prompt number: 13
Word Count: 6,800
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: When Harry decided to auction off a dinner date with himself for the Albus Dumbledore Memorial Scholarship Fund, he did not expect to be won by a former classmate. And he certainly did not expect that former classmate to be a man.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling -- no infringement intended.
Author’s Notes: I had every intention of making this a smutty little one-off, but then somehow it turned into ‘My Dinner with Andre’. I hope you like it anyway! Many thanks to my beta MK, and to the mods for organizing the fest.
Saganaki & Baklava
“It isn’t even a real date, Ginny.” The slight flutter in his voice belies his nervousness, despite what he says. Harry brushes off the shoulders of his navy dress robes for the fourth time, as he regards himself in the mirror. He can hear Ginny bustling about in their formerly shared bedroom, picking up items of clothing that he had previously tried on and discarded.
“It’s enough of a date that you’ve made a right mess of this room,” she replies, not unkindly.
“I was going to pick it all--”
A yelping whine, followed by loud barking and a shout of ‘Albie, don’t pull on Arya’s tails!’ interrupts his response, and a fond grin tugs at his lips. The crup is a fairly new addition to the Potter household, and while she couldn’t possibly replace the warmth and love of having the kids around full-time, Harry loves the little thing and is quite glad of her company.
“Besides,” Ginny continues, as she comes up behind him and straightens his collar like old times, “it’s not like you’ve been on a proper date in ages. You might as well count this one.”
“And just how do you know that?” he asks, batting her hands away when she tries to smooth out his hair for him. It’s never going to lay flat, and he’s just stopped caring at this point in his life.
Ginny smirks at him in her familiar way, and a tendril of the old feelings for her surfaces. It’s brief enough not to cause a pang of regret, and he’s grateful. They have both moved on, and it’s for the best. She’s happy now, and he’s not unhappy; most days, that’s enough for him. “In addition to torturing poor, defenseless crups, Al is also a bit of a gossip,” she answers, chuckling.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Where could he possibly have picked that up?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies, settling herself on the bed and crossing her legs. “What matters is that he’s right, and you know it. So why not stop acting like you’re going to your doom and try to enjoy yourself?”
“I just wish it wasn’t a blind date,” he concedes, turning to face her so that she might give him a final once-over. “If I at least knew who won the auction, I might feel less nervous about the whole thing.”
Ginny eyes him critically, but approves of his ensemble with a sharp nod. “It’s probably going to be some impossibly gorgeous bint with huge tits,” she says, helpfully.
“Yes, because that’s exactly my type,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, I’ll be happy if she can just string together more than two sentences and I can escape unharmed after dessert.”
“Oh, really Harry,” she says, exasperated, as she stands and grips him by the shoulders. “It’s one date, and it’s for a very good cause, and you need to stop acting like this is the end of the world. You’re going to have a great time, and that’s that, do you understand?”
Harry mock-salutes her, with a grin. He knows he’s overreacting, but it’s only because he secretly has high hopes for the date and doesn’t want to be disappointed. Al was right -- he hasn’t been on a proper date in at least six months and definitely hasn’t had a proper relationship since he and Ginny divorced five years ago. And not to put too fine a point on it, but Ginny managed to move along quite nicely, and he wonders sometimes if there’s just something wrong with him in particular.
“Now come on, Lily wants to tell you how handsome you are. She’s been practicing all afternoon.”
He grins. “I did notice she seemed to be having a better time of her ‘s’ sounds the other day at the zoo.” They make their way downstairs to the living room where they find Lily carefully petting the crup and James and Al playing with their miniature Quidditch figurines.
“Who knew Smith was so good with children, right?” Ginny murmurs, a smile on her face as they walk in the room. “Look who I’ve found, you lot.”
“Oi dad, lookin’ good!” says James, barely looking up from the game. Al, though only two years younger, is still at that age when a hug from dad is the only acceptable greeting and rushes over to attach himself to Harry’s legs. James huffs in irritation and uses the opportunity to score two goals in quick succession. “I’m winning, you big baby!” he crows.
“No fair!” Al cries, disengaging just as quickly and running back to take control of his team.
“Play nice, James,” Ginny admonishes, though her tone is fond, before turning to Lily on the sofa. “Lily, sweetheart, is there something you wanted to tell Daddy?”
Lily very carefully nudges Arya out of her lap, hops down, and walks over with a shy smile on her face. “You look very, very handth--” She cuts herself off quickly with a little shake. “You look very, very handsome, Daddy!”
Harry beams and reaches down to tug her into his arms for a hug. “And you look very, very beautiful, my little Lily doll,” he replies, pressing a kiss to her blushing cheek.
“Thank you, Daddy. I’ve been practicing really hard with Mr. Zachariath--I mean, Mr. Zacharias.” Lily grins widely, clearly proud of herself. It warms Harry to the core and makes him very reluctant to leave them. When he turns to Ginny, though, he sees a knowing smirk on her lips.
“You’re not skivving off this date to stay home with them, Mr. Chosen One. Now get a move on before your mystery date takes back her very, very generous donation to the Fund.” Ginny reaches out and tweaks his nose, like she so often does to James when he’s being especially difficult.
“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he says, patting down his pockets one last time to make certain he has his wallet and wand. “Don’t wait up…” he adds with a cheeky smile that he hopes doesn’t show how nervous he actually is. With one last goodbye to the kids, he closes his eyes and Disapparates.
--- --- ---
Xerxes is much fancier than Harry had anticipated, and as he straightens his robes after his Apparition into the designated spot in the foyer, he wonders if perhaps he’s underdressed and if that’s a good enough excuse to turn around and go home again. “What are you so scared of?” he berates himself, as he walks over to the host’s station.
The host is a tall, slender man, who appears to be only a few years younger than Harry, and his eyes flick almost unconsciously to the telltale scar on Harry’s forehead, while a grin that Harry isn’t entirely sure is genuine appears on his lips. “Mr. Potter, delighted to have you join us this evening. Your table is ready, if you’ll follow me?” He gestures animatedly toward the dining room, and Harry feels a tug of nervous energy once again.
“Has my companion arrived?” he asks, hoping the slight catch in his voice isn’t obvious.
The host’s blue eyes sparkle with barely restrained amusement, and Harry inwardly groans. “Yes, Mr. Potter, your … dinner guest is already seated. If you’ll follow me?” he repeats, with a smirk.
Harry seriously hopes that he isn’t going to totally regret his involvement with the Dumbledore Memorial Scholarship Fund. He scans the restaurant as he follows the host through the tables, seeking out any recognizable faces. He spots a few people he knows, but mostly just by reputation.
He also notes that none of the tables have single occupants and realizes the restaurant is a pretty romantic destination. When the restaurant opened its doors four months ago, it had been impossible to get a reservation (although not if your name was Harry Potter…), but Harry hadn’t been inclined to go there regardless. It wasn’t generally his style, though he did enjoy Greek food, and he certainly hadn’t had anyone to take there with him.
He’s led to a small table in a private alcove, for which Harry has to admit he’s grateful, but there seems to be no sign that anyone else was there. He glances back at the host, who vaguely indicates the restrooms before turning and heading back to his post in the lobby.
With a sharp sigh, Harry takes a seat and tries to arrange himself in a posture that will convey the least amount of nerves to his dinner companion. He’s really not certain why he’s such a complete mess at the moment. After all, he meets new people and exudes charm on a daily basis -- it comes with the territory of being a diplomat. The problem, he supposes, is the extra expectation; this isn’t a work meeting or a treaty negotiation -- it’s a potential love connection.
“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” a voice interrupts his reverie. “I had meant to be here when you arrived.”
Baffled, Harry looks up into the face of a curly brown-haired man of about his age. He seems vaguely familiar, but Harry draws a blank on the name.
A soft smile appears on the man’s face, as he extends his hand to Harry in greeting. “You don’t remember me, do you? That’s alright, I don’t suppose we’ve seen each other in at least ten years.” Harry awkwardly half-rises from his chair and shakes the man’s hand. “Anthony Goldstein,” he introduces himself.
The light clicks on in Harry’s head. “Right, yes, Goldstein. We were in the D.A. together,” he says, regaining at least some semblance of composure -- although it feels very odd to refer to the D.A. as if it was just some silly club from their youth.
As Anthony takes the seat across from him, Harry’s eyes widen. Surely Anthony can’t be his date for the evening? It hadn’t once occurred to him that his date wouldn’t be a woman. Not, of course, that it mattered -- though he didn’t think anyone knew his secret. He’d barely said it aloud before.
Anthony smiles warmly and, as if reading Harry’s mind, says, “I hope you aren’t too disappointed that I’m not some gorgeous blonde witch.”
Startled, Harry chuckles and shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “No, not disappointed at all,” he admits, “just surprised really. I guess I...well, I guess I thought it was going to be a date.”
“Well,” Anthony replies, his tone playful, “it’s still a date -- at least to me, it’s a date. Although, I’m guessing you’ve never been on a date with another man before.”
As if it isn’t obvious, Harry thinks. “No,” he then says, glancing down at his plate to stem the flush that threatens, “I cannot say that I have.”
“No need to be embarrassed. I was mostly joking anyway. I know it’s not a real date.” Harry looks back up to see Anthony sitting back in his chair, regarding him carefully. “The truth is, I wasn’t even looking for a date when I bid you up at the auction. What I really want is a conversation.”
“A conversation?”
But before Anthony can explain what he means, because Harry is beyond confused, the waitress arrives at their table to take a drink order. She’s young and clearly a bit starstruck by Harry, but Anthony manages to get her attention by ordering a bottle of Xerocambos. “Do you like pinot noir, or would you prefer something white?” Anthony asks, perusing the wine list casually.
He’s never been much for wine, but he nods anyway, too distracted to do anything else.
“A fine choice,” says the waitress, never taking her eyes off Harry, before she scurries away to fetch the wine steward.
“You’ll like this one, Harry,” Anthony says, before taking off his stylish silver frames and polishing the lenses on a handkerchief. “It’s a nice, medium-bodied wine. Not too overpowering for the casual wine drinker, but still rich enough to tempt a connoisseur.”
“Yeah, that’d be me...casual wine drinker,” he says, wondering why he didn’t just say that he never really drinks wine at all. Although, he supposes that if he’s to get through this dinner, maybe the wine will be more helpful than not.
“I’m sorry, Harry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Anthony asks, with genuine-seeming concern. He leans forward in his seat and rests his forearms gently on the table.
Harry isn’t really sure what to say that wouldn’t be an insult. Because he certainly doesn’t want Anthony to know that he’s disappointed...if he is disappointed, that is. Harry isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling. With a soft sigh then, he shakes his head again. “No, not at all, I promise. I’m not really used to this kind of restaurant,” he chuckles lightly, falsely, “it’s a bit fancy for my normal tastes.”
“Same here,” says Anthony, with a grin that lights up his face and makes him look quite handsome, “but I felt like I had to impress you at least a little bit.”
Harry laughs, more genuinely now. “Trust me, we could have gone for fish and chips or something, and it would have been just fine with me.”
“Duly noted,” Anthony replies, shaking his head lightly. “I’ll try and remember that for next time.”
They lapse into a brief silence, as Harry wonders if they’ll be able to get through this time, let alone a next time. Not, of course, that he would really mind spending more time with Anthony. Though he barely knows the man, and what he remembers from their youth likely has nothing to do with the man sitting across from him today, he’s at a point in his life where he doesn’t really want to turn down the chance to get to know someone new. Most of the people he’s met over the years haven’t exactly wanted to just be his friend, but rather have wanted to take advantage of his celebrity status. Suddenly wary, a thought occurs to Harry.
“You don’t … I mean, if you want to sit here and talk about, you know, the war and Voldemort and everything--”
“--no, no, Harry, I think you misunderstand,” Anthony interrupts, leaning forward and shaking his head. “I’m not really interested in the Boy Who Lived, and all that. I’m interested in you. I want to know who you are.”
“Who I am?”
Smiling brightly again, Anthony sits back and gestures abstractly to Harry. “The scar, the signature frames, the heroism you wear like a cloak of honor out in public -- those are just affectations, Harry. I don’t particularly care about those things. I want to know about the real you.”
Harry’s brow furrows slightly, as he considers. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about what Anthony said. Frankly, it sounds a bit like nonsense. He’s heard variations on it before, of course. After Ginny, most of the women he dated told him that they were really interested in him as a person, but in the end, he’d always found them to be clinging to the fame. They wanted to be able to tell everyone that they had bagged the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Chosen One, and all the other stupid names that the press had for him. He’d had more than enough of the tell-all articles in the Prophet and Witch Weekly.
Yet something in Anthony’s countenance suggests that perhaps Harry should take a chance. He glances up to see Anthony smiling softly. Harry sees no trace of malice or hint of seduction. Perhaps Anthony is genuinely interested. In spite of himself, Harry smiles back. “Yeah, alright, I think I can do that,” he answers, as the wine steward returns and pours them each a glass and leaves the bottle for the table.
Anthony’s smile widens again into a grin, and though he hasn’t yet had a drop of alcohol, Harry finds himself feeling quite warm. “To tonight?” Anthony says, raising his glass.
“To a real conversation,” Harry adds, clinking his glass against Anthony’s, with a bright smile.
--- --- ---
Harry finds, as they tuck into their starters -- saganaki for himself and something called melitzanes for Anthony -- that having a conversation with a person is actually a lot more difficult than he originally thought. Three times he’s tried to ask a question or raise a topic, only to have Anthony shake his head and say ‘no small talk, Harry!’. It’s disconcerting, but Harry doesn’t know how to get in the groove.
“It’s been a while since you’ve really conversed with anyone, hasn’t it?” Anthony asks then, a knowing look on his face that reminds Harry uncomfortably of Hermione when she’s at her swottiest.
“I don’t know about that,” Harry replies, a bit defensively. “I mean, I do it all day long.”
“Oh, you mean all that twaddle with the representatives from other countries? I hope you don’t really think that’s what I want to do here tonight.” Anthony chuckles lightly, and Harry notices for the first time the little dimple in his left cheek. “Because if it’s anything like the interactions I have all day long, I can categorically state that it’s not real conversation.”
Harry wants to feel offended, but the smile on Anthony’s face is too distracting. He can tell the man is just teasing him. “And what is it that you do all day? Or is that too small talky?” he teases back.
Anthony laughs and reaches for his wineglass. “Oh, fine, I guess we can at least start there. I’m an associate at Hardwicke & Doge. I’m hoping to make partner soon.”
Surprised, Harry sits back. “You’re a barrister?”
“Mmm,” Anthony hums affirmatively, around a mouthful of his melitzanes. “Solicitor, actually.”
“That’s really cool. You know I thought about that for a while, after it became obvious I wasn’t interested in being an Auror,” Harry replies, before finishing off the last of his saganaki and reaching for his wine glass again. “I thought I would still like to do something involving law enforcement.”
Anthony looks briefly pensive, but then appears to shake something off. “So I’d imagine you’d have been drawn to criminal prosecution … been a barrister for the Ministry or maybe the Wizengamot itself.”
“Sure, something like that. What sort of law do you practice?”
“Probate, mostly. I draft wills and trust agreements, advanced directives, that sort of thing,” he replies, as the waitress returns to check on them and assure them once more that their entrees are on the way and can she get anything else for Mr. Potter? Anthony stifles a laugh, as Harry politely informs her that he’s still perfectly fine, then continues. “It’s not the most thrilling area of legal practice, but it’s quite important.”
“And you’re good at it, I imagine?” Harry replies, frowning a bit at the slightly wistful expression that crosses Anthony’s face. He doesn’t know Anthony all that well, of course, but even he can tell that something isn’t quite right. “I’m sorry, is this too much like small talk again?” he adds, aiming for a jokey tone.
“On the contrary,” Anthony answers, glancing seriously at Harry. “Harry, I’ve been a solicitor for several years now, and I have absolutely no intention of changing my career path, yet whenever the subject comes up, I still feel slightly awkward about the whole thing.”
Curious, Harry reaches for the wine bottle and tops the pair of them off. “Why’s that?”
“Because my father is a barrister, and it was his intention for me to join his practice as soon as I finished my pupillage.” Anthony reaches for his glass and downs half of it in one go.
“Pupillage?” Harry asks, now concerned over the pall that appears to have been cast on the conversation.
“It’s the last bit of training before you’re officially a barrister. Solicitors don’t have to do it. We have something else, a training contract.”
“Oh,” Harry nods, “so then I take it you didn’t join your father’s practice?”
“I was never interested in trial advocacy, Harry, but my dad practices tort law -- that’s personal injury -- which would have required me to be in court all the time. I’ve only ever set foot before the Wizengamot once, and it was plenty, thank you,” Anthony finishes, chuckling lightly.
“Yeah, it’s not a particularly pleasant place,” Harry adds, with a touch of bitterness. He’s never quite gotten over his first hearing, no matter how many times he’s been back through the chambers testifying on others’ behalves or even just touring with other diplomats.
“Bit stodgy and intimidating.” Anthony smirks at his plate. “Rather like my father, come to that.”
Frowning with concern, Harry reaches across the table and places his hand on Anthony’s. His thumb strokes gently over Anthony’s knuckles, before he realizes what he’s doing -- a gesture of comfort that he often reserved for Ginny in the past -- and pulls back. “You, er, that is, you and your dad don’t get along so well then?” he stutters awkwardly, knowing that he’s likely flushed a bright red from the heat he feels in his cheeks.
If Anthony feels awkward, he doesn’t show it, and Harry finds that quite helpful in stemming the tide of embarrassment. “It isn’t so much that we don’t get along, as that I feel I’ve disappointed him.” He glances up at Harry, a curious expression on his face. “It doesn’t even matter that he’s never actually said anything. There’s just a sense I feel with him that I didn’t follow the plan he had in mind for me, so I’m never quite going to be good enough.”
Eyes narrowing as he considers, Harry absently reaches across the table with a fork and spears the last bit of Anthony’s melitzanes for himself. “It’s your life, though. It shouldn’t matter what his plan was, as long as you’re happy with what you’ve accomplished,” he replies, popping the fried eggplant slice in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “You are happy, aren’t you?”
“I’m not unhappy,” Anthony answers, an unreadable expression on his face.
Harry certainly understands that feeling. “It isn’t,” he hesitates a moment, “it isn’t enough though, is it?”
“Being not unhappy?” Anthony runs a hand through his curls, sighing gently, and Harry fights the sudden urge to reach out and do the same. Something about Anthony is familiar in a warm, pleasant way, but Harry can’t quite figure out what it is. “No,” Anthony then continues, “I should say that it isn’t. I think we all deserve a shot at real happiness, but for whatever reason, the great plan hasn’t seemed to work out just yet.”
Anthony’s tone isn’t bitter, but resigned in a way that tugs fiercely at Harry’s heart. He knows exactly how it feels to want something more, to make plans and try to act on them, only to still feel that happiness or whatever else he’s searching for remains out of reach.
Before he can respond, the waitress arrives with their entrees. “Here you are, Mr. Potter, your arnisia paidakai,” she says, placing the dish in front of Harry with a dazzling smile. “I know you’re going to love it. It’s one of the house specialties and Chef Rousakis,” she places Anthony’s dish in front of him without a glance, “says that your meal is on him tonight. He hopes you really enjoy it!”
“I’m sure I will,” he replies, eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. Anthony bites down on his lower lip, as if to keep from laughing, and his eyes are bright with amusement. “And I’m sure that Tony will enjoy his as well.” He gestures across the table, and Anthony gives her a jaunty smile and a quirk of his eyebrows.
“Right, of course,” she replies offhandedly, before turning immediately back to Harry with enthusiasm. “If you need anything, please just call me over. I’ll be back to check again in a few minutes.” She grins, lingers briefly, and then heads away.
Anthony laughs brightly, and Harry cannot help but join him. There’s something infectious in Anthony’s mirth, something that doesn’t quite match with his more serious-seeming face and the tone that their conversation had carried before they were interrupted. In fact, Anthony really does look quite handsome -- but that’s not right, it’s more than Anthony looks quite attractive when he’s laughing and smiling.
It’s not all that disconcerting anymore, Harry can admit, to be attracted to a man, though perhaps a bit surprising. He’s known for a long time that he’s not necessarily exclusively attracted to women. Oliver Wood comes to mind, as does a regrettable crush on Bill Weasley. He just dated and later married Ginny, like the hero of the story was supposed to marry his dream girl, and since their divorce, he hadn’t really had the opportunity to explore. It seemed odd to him for a family man to experiment, no matter if he wanted to or not. That time was supposed to have passed him by already, but he cannot deny that there is something here -- something between Anthony and himself.
“Do you think it will ever end?” Anthony asks, between chuckles.
“What?”
He sighs gently out of his laughter, before reaching for a fork and tucking into his meal. “The obsession with your celebrity.”
Shrugging, Harry follows suit, picking up his own fork and getting himself a bite. “I hope it does, but I’m not holding my breath,” he says, raising his eyes to Anthony. “At least it isn’t as bad as it used to be.”
“Only one story in the Prophet a week, instead of every day?” Anthony teases.
“Something like that,” Harry replies, shrugging again. It’s not really something he wants to talk about. He’s never been comfortable with fame, especially when it was at its height in the direct aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war. All he wanted was to finally have a normal life, but it had remained elusive. Every significant event in his life had been a media circus, and even the insignificant ones had often been newsworthy.
“The worst,” he then continued, unsure of why he was confessing it exactly, except that it felt in line with what Anthony had asked for from him in the first place, “was when Jamie was born. We had paparazzi disguised as Healers and mediwitches at St. Mungo’s in the hopes that they’d be the first to get a picture of ‘The Potter Baby’.” A frustrated noise comes from the back of his throat, and he reaches for the wine bottle and empties the rest into his glass, as he remembers the anger and tension that he felt at what should have been a purely joyful moment. “God, I just got so … so angry. I don’t think I’d ever been that angry before or since.”
“I remember reading about that,” Anthony replies, head cocking slightly. “It was such an invasion of privacy. It should have been something just for you and your wife -- not the whole world.” He smiles wistfully, and something deep in Harry that he hadn’t even been aware of before unclenches.
“Thank you. Not many people agree with you on that,” Harry says, then takes a few more bites, eyes fixed on his plate briefly as he savors the meal which, as promised, is completely delicious. But when he looks up again, noticing that Anthony has fallen silent, he sees the strange look on the man’s face. “Alright, Tony?”
Anthony nods, but he says nothing for a moment and looks down at his own food.
Deliberately this time, Harry sets down his fork and reaches across the table to take Anthony’s hand into his own. “Don’t get quiet on me now,” Harry says softly, letting his thumb brush along Anthony’s knuckles. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I promise,” Anthony responds, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. Again, Harry can see something odd in Anthony’s expression, but he isn’t wary or concerned about what it could mean. He feels at ease, for what reason he doesn’t know, here with this man who has invited him to share things he hasn’t shared with anyone in a long while -- whether Anthony knows or not what he’s done. Anthony then looks up, and the corner of his lip twitches upward in amusement or pleasure, Harry isn’t sure. His thumb lifts slightly to catch Harry’s, acknowledging the touch and keeping it in place. “What are you doing, Harry?” he adds, knowingly.
“I don’t know, what am I doing?” Harry replies evenly, eyes never leaving Anthony’s. He feels charged somehow, electric. Something is happening between them, something that Harry was almost certain he wouldn’t ever experience again, after Ginny and all his failed attempts at relationships since their divorce. He wonders if it’s because he has been wanting to feel it or because the source is so unexpected -- or if it’s just real.
Anthony bites down on his lower lip, even white teeth scraping gently, and Harry cannot help but let his gaze fall there. “I told you I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says quietly, almost shyly.
“Neither was I,” Harry replies quickly. “Is it so wrong to happen anyway?”
“But you’re not … Harry, I didn’t ask you here to try and--”
“--you didn’t really ask me here at all,” Harry interrupts, a cheeky smile coming to his lips. His confidence has risen, all his nerves from earlier in the night melting away in the face of Anthony’s shy warmth. “You won me, remember?”
“I remember,” Anthony replies, giving Harry’s fingers a squeeze before letting go.
“So will you tell me what’s bothering you?” he asks, before casually returning to his meal. His fingers itch for contact again, but he can wait. After all, he’s not entirely sure what’s happening -- he only knows that he rather likes it.
Anthony says nothing for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not it would be going too far to say what he wants to say. Harry waits patiently, as he knows how irritating it can be to have someone push you when you don’t want to be pushed into talking. The last few months before he and Ginny filed for divorce were certainly a lesson in communication. Harry had always been the type to guard his deeper and less pleasant feelings, for fear of disrupting the semblance of normal that they had created, but all it had really served to do was fester resentment between the pair of them. When she called him on it, he retreated even further. Being open, now, is a nice change of pace.
“Children are a bit of a sensitive subject for me,” Anthony finally says. “My partner and I ended our relationship about six months ago because he didn’t want them, and I did.”
“Oh.” Harry glances away briefly, noticing their waitress hovering not too far and gives her a look and a shake of his head to indicate she should keep her distance for a bit, before turning back. He doesn’t want them interrupted anymore -- not when Anthony has grown serious. “Did you know he didn’t want children?”
Anthony scoffs a laugh and smirks bitterly down at his plate. “I did. We talked about it after a couple years together.” Sighing gently again, he looks up, fixing Harry with a look that clearly demonstrates how painful the subject is. “Quite pathetic of me, right? I suppose I thought because he was older than me, he’d eventually feel that biological urge to procreate.” He laughs again, uncomfortably this time.
Harry isn’t sure what the right response is -- it was one fight that he and Ginny never had. They had both wanted to start a family, and in fact, had begun trying in earnest on their honeymoon. His children mean the absolute world to him, and he can’t imagine what his life would be like without them. “It isn’t too late for you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he offers.
“No, I know that, but I suppose I’m more upset about it because I spent ten years with Alfie trying to change his mind instead of finding someone else who could make me happy and give me the family that I wanted.” Anthony breathes the last of it, and Harry can hear the ache in his words, the absolute want and desire for something so precious. It breaks his heart a little. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Anthony continues, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stem the tide of emotion that has suddenly swelled, “I don’t mean to be such a downer. God, I’ve been completely awful this whole evening, haven’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say completely awful,” Harry teases, trying to coax a smile out of Anthony. Despite how it might have seemed, he was having a nice time, even if their conversation had been more on the morose side. It had been so long since someone had wanted to really talk to him, trust him with something beyond the typical pleasantries or the mindless chatter. Whatever direction their conversation had taken, at least it was a real conversation -- exactly what Anthony had asked for earlier. “But I do think we need some dessert.”
Anthony nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Dessert is definitely necessary.”
Harry then casually raises a hand, only to have their eager waitress immediately rush over to the table. He glances again at Anthony, happy to see the man chuckle quietly again. “We’d like an order of baklava to go, and the bill please.”
“Oh, but Mr. Potter, Chef Rousakis said--”
“--oh, that’s right. Well, I suppose just the baklava, then. And do give my compliments and gratitude to Mr. Rousakis,” he finishes, eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. He practically beams with pleasure when he sees Anthony smile brightly again. And when the waitress flits off to the kitchen, he winks at Anthony. “So I guess the celebrity thing comes in handy sometimes.”
“I guess it does. So where are we going?” he asks, a faint flush in his cheeks that Harry finds ridiculously endearing. It seems their positions have reversed entirely. Perhaps it’s a Gryffindor thing, though -- Harry finds his courage and tenacity just when he needs it most.
“I was thinking maybe a walk in Victory Park? It’s really nice this time of night,” Harry answers.
Anthony nods. “I’d like that very much.”
--- --- ---
The night air is cool, but pleasant, and the company more so. Harry can’t help but smile every time his fingers brush gently against Anthony’s, as they walk together along the winding path in Victory Park. He almost feels like a teenager again, his stomach fluttering with butterflies, and when they reach the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Fountain, he takes a seat on the fountain’s edge and tugs Anthony down next to him.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, as he carefully opens the takeaway carton that holds their baklava.
“Anything,” Anthony replies, reaching for a piece. He slides a bit closer as he does so, until his thigh rests lightly against Harry’s own.
Pleased by their proximity, no matter how unused to such things he is, Harry sets the carton down to the side and picks up a piece of his own. “Why did you bid on me really? I know you said conversation, but you could have gotten that with anyone. Why me, specifically?” he asks seriously, before popping a small bite of the sweet, savory pastry into his mouth.
Anthony stretches his legs out in front of himself, crossing them lightly at the ankle. “I’ve always been interested in you, Harry,” he confesses, turning his head to Harry for a moment, before turning back and looking ahead into the distance. “Ever since we were in school together. I was always fascinated by you, and I wanted a chance to get to know you.”
“Fascinated by me?” Harry says, his tone sharpening. Anthony had said before that he didn’t care about the Boy Who Lived, but that’s who Harry was when they’d first met. They hadn’t really been friends, nor had they gotten to know each other when they were in school together, having been in different Houses. He’d met plenty of people in his life who were fascinated by him, and it had never turned out particularly well. Hell, even Ginny, to an extent, had been fascinated by him when they were young, and even though she had given him a family and had loved him for a long time, it hadn’t worked out either.
As if he knows where Harry’s train of thought has gone, Anthony carefully sets down his pastry and places a hand on Harry’s knee. “I meant what I said before, Harry. I don’t care about the Boy Who Lived. That boy doesn’t fascinate me -- you do.” He pauses briefly and looks Harry straight in the eye, all truth and seriousness. “The Boy Who Lived is just a legend, a story we tell our youth to make them believe in heroes and let them know that they can do anything as long as they’re willing to love and sacrifice and work hard. Harry Potter is just a man,” he squeezes Harry’s knee gently, “a good man, trying to live his life and be happy. That’s the man I’m interested in.”
“You hardly know me,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper, and his hand comes down to catch Anthony’s there on his knee.
“That’s why I bid on you, Harry,” Anthony replies, smiling gently. “I wanted to get to know you. I’ve been waiting quite a long time for the chance, and I finally got it.”
“You could have just asked me out.” Harry turns slightly so that they’re facing each other better now, and his hand slides up, hesitating only briefly before trailing along Anthony’s cheek and cupping his jawline.
Anthony’s breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes fall closed. “I didn’t realize that you would have said yes. I didn’t know that you were--”
“--let’s just say that I’m glad you won,” Harry interrupts, leaning closer. He’s never done this before, kissed a man, and while he knows it isn’t really all that different from kissing a woman, he feels a slight flutter of nerves. Somehow, though, the nerves steel his resolve. It’s normal -- Harry likes normal.
The press of their lips is faint, just a ghosting of skin against skin, until Anthony’s hand comes up to tug gently at the front of Harry’s robes, pulling him closer. Harry doesn’t care that they’re in public and anyone could see and go running to the Prophet with a scoop about The Chosen One. Because right now, he’s not the Chosen One. He’s not the Boy Who Lived or the Vanquisher of Voldemort. He’s not any of those things.
He’s Harry. Just Harry.
Author: blithelybonny
Characters: Harry Potter/Anthony Goldstein, Ginny Weasley, and the Potter kids.
Prompt number: 13
Word Count: 6,800
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: When Harry decided to auction off a dinner date with himself for the Albus Dumbledore Memorial Scholarship Fund, he did not expect to be won by a former classmate. And he certainly did not expect that former classmate to be a man.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling -- no infringement intended.
Author’s Notes: I had every intention of making this a smutty little one-off, but then somehow it turned into ‘My Dinner with Andre’. I hope you like it anyway! Many thanks to my beta MK, and to the mods for organizing the fest.
Saganaki & Baklava
“It isn’t even a real date, Ginny.” The slight flutter in his voice belies his nervousness, despite what he says. Harry brushes off the shoulders of his navy dress robes for the fourth time, as he regards himself in the mirror. He can hear Ginny bustling about in their formerly shared bedroom, picking up items of clothing that he had previously tried on and discarded.
“It’s enough of a date that you’ve made a right mess of this room,” she replies, not unkindly.
“I was going to pick it all--”
A yelping whine, followed by loud barking and a shout of ‘Albie, don’t pull on Arya’s tails!’ interrupts his response, and a fond grin tugs at his lips. The crup is a fairly new addition to the Potter household, and while she couldn’t possibly replace the warmth and love of having the kids around full-time, Harry loves the little thing and is quite glad of her company.
“Besides,” Ginny continues, as she comes up behind him and straightens his collar like old times, “it’s not like you’ve been on a proper date in ages. You might as well count this one.”
“And just how do you know that?” he asks, batting her hands away when she tries to smooth out his hair for him. It’s never going to lay flat, and he’s just stopped caring at this point in his life.
Ginny smirks at him in her familiar way, and a tendril of the old feelings for her surfaces. It’s brief enough not to cause a pang of regret, and he’s grateful. They have both moved on, and it’s for the best. She’s happy now, and he’s not unhappy; most days, that’s enough for him. “In addition to torturing poor, defenseless crups, Al is also a bit of a gossip,” she answers, chuckling.
Harry rolls his eyes. “Where could he possibly have picked that up?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies, settling herself on the bed and crossing her legs. “What matters is that he’s right, and you know it. So why not stop acting like you’re going to your doom and try to enjoy yourself?”
“I just wish it wasn’t a blind date,” he concedes, turning to face her so that she might give him a final once-over. “If I at least knew who won the auction, I might feel less nervous about the whole thing.”
Ginny eyes him critically, but approves of his ensemble with a sharp nod. “It’s probably going to be some impossibly gorgeous bint with huge tits,” she says, helpfully.
“Yes, because that’s exactly my type,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, I’ll be happy if she can just string together more than two sentences and I can escape unharmed after dessert.”
“Oh, really Harry,” she says, exasperated, as she stands and grips him by the shoulders. “It’s one date, and it’s for a very good cause, and you need to stop acting like this is the end of the world. You’re going to have a great time, and that’s that, do you understand?”
Harry mock-salutes her, with a grin. He knows he’s overreacting, but it’s only because he secretly has high hopes for the date and doesn’t want to be disappointed. Al was right -- he hasn’t been on a proper date in at least six months and definitely hasn’t had a proper relationship since he and Ginny divorced five years ago. And not to put too fine a point on it, but Ginny managed to move along quite nicely, and he wonders sometimes if there’s just something wrong with him in particular.
“Now come on, Lily wants to tell you how handsome you are. She’s been practicing all afternoon.”
He grins. “I did notice she seemed to be having a better time of her ‘s’ sounds the other day at the zoo.” They make their way downstairs to the living room where they find Lily carefully petting the crup and James and Al playing with their miniature Quidditch figurines.
“Who knew Smith was so good with children, right?” Ginny murmurs, a smile on her face as they walk in the room. “Look who I’ve found, you lot.”
“Oi dad, lookin’ good!” says James, barely looking up from the game. Al, though only two years younger, is still at that age when a hug from dad is the only acceptable greeting and rushes over to attach himself to Harry’s legs. James huffs in irritation and uses the opportunity to score two goals in quick succession. “I’m winning, you big baby!” he crows.
“No fair!” Al cries, disengaging just as quickly and running back to take control of his team.
“Play nice, James,” Ginny admonishes, though her tone is fond, before turning to Lily on the sofa. “Lily, sweetheart, is there something you wanted to tell Daddy?”
Lily very carefully nudges Arya out of her lap, hops down, and walks over with a shy smile on her face. “You look very, very handth--” She cuts herself off quickly with a little shake. “You look very, very handsome, Daddy!”
Harry beams and reaches down to tug her into his arms for a hug. “And you look very, very beautiful, my little Lily doll,” he replies, pressing a kiss to her blushing cheek.
“Thank you, Daddy. I’ve been practicing really hard with Mr. Zachariath--I mean, Mr. Zacharias.” Lily grins widely, clearly proud of herself. It warms Harry to the core and makes him very reluctant to leave them. When he turns to Ginny, though, he sees a knowing smirk on her lips.
“You’re not skivving off this date to stay home with them, Mr. Chosen One. Now get a move on before your mystery date takes back her very, very generous donation to the Fund.” Ginny reaches out and tweaks his nose, like she so often does to James when he’s being especially difficult.
“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he says, patting down his pockets one last time to make certain he has his wallet and wand. “Don’t wait up…” he adds with a cheeky smile that he hopes doesn’t show how nervous he actually is. With one last goodbye to the kids, he closes his eyes and Disapparates.
--- --- ---
Xerxes is much fancier than Harry had anticipated, and as he straightens his robes after his Apparition into the designated spot in the foyer, he wonders if perhaps he’s underdressed and if that’s a good enough excuse to turn around and go home again. “What are you so scared of?” he berates himself, as he walks over to the host’s station.
The host is a tall, slender man, who appears to be only a few years younger than Harry, and his eyes flick almost unconsciously to the telltale scar on Harry’s forehead, while a grin that Harry isn’t entirely sure is genuine appears on his lips. “Mr. Potter, delighted to have you join us this evening. Your table is ready, if you’ll follow me?” He gestures animatedly toward the dining room, and Harry feels a tug of nervous energy once again.
“Has my companion arrived?” he asks, hoping the slight catch in his voice isn’t obvious.
The host’s blue eyes sparkle with barely restrained amusement, and Harry inwardly groans. “Yes, Mr. Potter, your … dinner guest is already seated. If you’ll follow me?” he repeats, with a smirk.
Harry seriously hopes that he isn’t going to totally regret his involvement with the Dumbledore Memorial Scholarship Fund. He scans the restaurant as he follows the host through the tables, seeking out any recognizable faces. He spots a few people he knows, but mostly just by reputation.
He also notes that none of the tables have single occupants and realizes the restaurant is a pretty romantic destination. When the restaurant opened its doors four months ago, it had been impossible to get a reservation (although not if your name was Harry Potter…), but Harry hadn’t been inclined to go there regardless. It wasn’t generally his style, though he did enjoy Greek food, and he certainly hadn’t had anyone to take there with him.
He’s led to a small table in a private alcove, for which Harry has to admit he’s grateful, but there seems to be no sign that anyone else was there. He glances back at the host, who vaguely indicates the restrooms before turning and heading back to his post in the lobby.
With a sharp sigh, Harry takes a seat and tries to arrange himself in a posture that will convey the least amount of nerves to his dinner companion. He’s really not certain why he’s such a complete mess at the moment. After all, he meets new people and exudes charm on a daily basis -- it comes with the territory of being a diplomat. The problem, he supposes, is the extra expectation; this isn’t a work meeting or a treaty negotiation -- it’s a potential love connection.
“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” a voice interrupts his reverie. “I had meant to be here when you arrived.”
Baffled, Harry looks up into the face of a curly brown-haired man of about his age. He seems vaguely familiar, but Harry draws a blank on the name.
A soft smile appears on the man’s face, as he extends his hand to Harry in greeting. “You don’t remember me, do you? That’s alright, I don’t suppose we’ve seen each other in at least ten years.” Harry awkwardly half-rises from his chair and shakes the man’s hand. “Anthony Goldstein,” he introduces himself.
The light clicks on in Harry’s head. “Right, yes, Goldstein. We were in the D.A. together,” he says, regaining at least some semblance of composure -- although it feels very odd to refer to the D.A. as if it was just some silly club from their youth.
As Anthony takes the seat across from him, Harry’s eyes widen. Surely Anthony can’t be his date for the evening? It hadn’t once occurred to him that his date wouldn’t be a woman. Not, of course, that it mattered -- though he didn’t think anyone knew his secret. He’d barely said it aloud before.
Anthony smiles warmly and, as if reading Harry’s mind, says, “I hope you aren’t too disappointed that I’m not some gorgeous blonde witch.”
Startled, Harry chuckles and shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “No, not disappointed at all,” he admits, “just surprised really. I guess I...well, I guess I thought it was going to be a date.”
“Well,” Anthony replies, his tone playful, “it’s still a date -- at least to me, it’s a date. Although, I’m guessing you’ve never been on a date with another man before.”
As if it isn’t obvious, Harry thinks. “No,” he then says, glancing down at his plate to stem the flush that threatens, “I cannot say that I have.”
“No need to be embarrassed. I was mostly joking anyway. I know it’s not a real date.” Harry looks back up to see Anthony sitting back in his chair, regarding him carefully. “The truth is, I wasn’t even looking for a date when I bid you up at the auction. What I really want is a conversation.”
“A conversation?”
But before Anthony can explain what he means, because Harry is beyond confused, the waitress arrives at their table to take a drink order. She’s young and clearly a bit starstruck by Harry, but Anthony manages to get her attention by ordering a bottle of Xerocambos. “Do you like pinot noir, or would you prefer something white?” Anthony asks, perusing the wine list casually.
He’s never been much for wine, but he nods anyway, too distracted to do anything else.
“A fine choice,” says the waitress, never taking her eyes off Harry, before she scurries away to fetch the wine steward.
“You’ll like this one, Harry,” Anthony says, before taking off his stylish silver frames and polishing the lenses on a handkerchief. “It’s a nice, medium-bodied wine. Not too overpowering for the casual wine drinker, but still rich enough to tempt a connoisseur.”
“Yeah, that’d be me...casual wine drinker,” he says, wondering why he didn’t just say that he never really drinks wine at all. Although, he supposes that if he’s to get through this dinner, maybe the wine will be more helpful than not.
“I’m sorry, Harry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Anthony asks, with genuine-seeming concern. He leans forward in his seat and rests his forearms gently on the table.
Harry isn’t really sure what to say that wouldn’t be an insult. Because he certainly doesn’t want Anthony to know that he’s disappointed...if he is disappointed, that is. Harry isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling. With a soft sigh then, he shakes his head again. “No, not at all, I promise. I’m not really used to this kind of restaurant,” he chuckles lightly, falsely, “it’s a bit fancy for my normal tastes.”
“Same here,” says Anthony, with a grin that lights up his face and makes him look quite handsome, “but I felt like I had to impress you at least a little bit.”
Harry laughs, more genuinely now. “Trust me, we could have gone for fish and chips or something, and it would have been just fine with me.”
“Duly noted,” Anthony replies, shaking his head lightly. “I’ll try and remember that for next time.”
They lapse into a brief silence, as Harry wonders if they’ll be able to get through this time, let alone a next time. Not, of course, that he would really mind spending more time with Anthony. Though he barely knows the man, and what he remembers from their youth likely has nothing to do with the man sitting across from him today, he’s at a point in his life where he doesn’t really want to turn down the chance to get to know someone new. Most of the people he’s met over the years haven’t exactly wanted to just be his friend, but rather have wanted to take advantage of his celebrity status. Suddenly wary, a thought occurs to Harry.
“You don’t … I mean, if you want to sit here and talk about, you know, the war and Voldemort and everything--”
“--no, no, Harry, I think you misunderstand,” Anthony interrupts, leaning forward and shaking his head. “I’m not really interested in the Boy Who Lived, and all that. I’m interested in you. I want to know who you are.”
“Who I am?”
Smiling brightly again, Anthony sits back and gestures abstractly to Harry. “The scar, the signature frames, the heroism you wear like a cloak of honor out in public -- those are just affectations, Harry. I don’t particularly care about those things. I want to know about the real you.”
Harry’s brow furrows slightly, as he considers. He isn’t quite sure how he feels about what Anthony said. Frankly, it sounds a bit like nonsense. He’s heard variations on it before, of course. After Ginny, most of the women he dated told him that they were really interested in him as a person, but in the end, he’d always found them to be clinging to the fame. They wanted to be able to tell everyone that they had bagged the Boy Who Lived Twice, the Chosen One, and all the other stupid names that the press had for him. He’d had more than enough of the tell-all articles in the Prophet and Witch Weekly.
Yet something in Anthony’s countenance suggests that perhaps Harry should take a chance. He glances up to see Anthony smiling softly. Harry sees no trace of malice or hint of seduction. Perhaps Anthony is genuinely interested. In spite of himself, Harry smiles back. “Yeah, alright, I think I can do that,” he answers, as the wine steward returns and pours them each a glass and leaves the bottle for the table.
Anthony’s smile widens again into a grin, and though he hasn’t yet had a drop of alcohol, Harry finds himself feeling quite warm. “To tonight?” Anthony says, raising his glass.
“To a real conversation,” Harry adds, clinking his glass against Anthony’s, with a bright smile.
--- --- ---
Harry finds, as they tuck into their starters -- saganaki for himself and something called melitzanes for Anthony -- that having a conversation with a person is actually a lot more difficult than he originally thought. Three times he’s tried to ask a question or raise a topic, only to have Anthony shake his head and say ‘no small talk, Harry!’. It’s disconcerting, but Harry doesn’t know how to get in the groove.
“It’s been a while since you’ve really conversed with anyone, hasn’t it?” Anthony asks then, a knowing look on his face that reminds Harry uncomfortably of Hermione when she’s at her swottiest.
“I don’t know about that,” Harry replies, a bit defensively. “I mean, I do it all day long.”
“Oh, you mean all that twaddle with the representatives from other countries? I hope you don’t really think that’s what I want to do here tonight.” Anthony chuckles lightly, and Harry notices for the first time the little dimple in his left cheek. “Because if it’s anything like the interactions I have all day long, I can categorically state that it’s not real conversation.”
Harry wants to feel offended, but the smile on Anthony’s face is too distracting. He can tell the man is just teasing him. “And what is it that you do all day? Or is that too small talky?” he teases back.
Anthony laughs and reaches for his wineglass. “Oh, fine, I guess we can at least start there. I’m an associate at Hardwicke & Doge. I’m hoping to make partner soon.”
Surprised, Harry sits back. “You’re a barrister?”
“Mmm,” Anthony hums affirmatively, around a mouthful of his melitzanes. “Solicitor, actually.”
“That’s really cool. You know I thought about that for a while, after it became obvious I wasn’t interested in being an Auror,” Harry replies, before finishing off the last of his saganaki and reaching for his wine glass again. “I thought I would still like to do something involving law enforcement.”
Anthony looks briefly pensive, but then appears to shake something off. “So I’d imagine you’d have been drawn to criminal prosecution … been a barrister for the Ministry or maybe the Wizengamot itself.”
“Sure, something like that. What sort of law do you practice?”
“Probate, mostly. I draft wills and trust agreements, advanced directives, that sort of thing,” he replies, as the waitress returns to check on them and assure them once more that their entrees are on the way and can she get anything else for Mr. Potter? Anthony stifles a laugh, as Harry politely informs her that he’s still perfectly fine, then continues. “It’s not the most thrilling area of legal practice, but it’s quite important.”
“And you’re good at it, I imagine?” Harry replies, frowning a bit at the slightly wistful expression that crosses Anthony’s face. He doesn’t know Anthony all that well, of course, but even he can tell that something isn’t quite right. “I’m sorry, is this too much like small talk again?” he adds, aiming for a jokey tone.
“On the contrary,” Anthony answers, glancing seriously at Harry. “Harry, I’ve been a solicitor for several years now, and I have absolutely no intention of changing my career path, yet whenever the subject comes up, I still feel slightly awkward about the whole thing.”
Curious, Harry reaches for the wine bottle and tops the pair of them off. “Why’s that?”
“Because my father is a barrister, and it was his intention for me to join his practice as soon as I finished my pupillage.” Anthony reaches for his glass and downs half of it in one go.
“Pupillage?” Harry asks, now concerned over the pall that appears to have been cast on the conversation.
“It’s the last bit of training before you’re officially a barrister. Solicitors don’t have to do it. We have something else, a training contract.”
“Oh,” Harry nods, “so then I take it you didn’t join your father’s practice?”
“I was never interested in trial advocacy, Harry, but my dad practices tort law -- that’s personal injury -- which would have required me to be in court all the time. I’ve only ever set foot before the Wizengamot once, and it was plenty, thank you,” Anthony finishes, chuckling lightly.
“Yeah, it’s not a particularly pleasant place,” Harry adds, with a touch of bitterness. He’s never quite gotten over his first hearing, no matter how many times he’s been back through the chambers testifying on others’ behalves or even just touring with other diplomats.
“Bit stodgy and intimidating.” Anthony smirks at his plate. “Rather like my father, come to that.”
Frowning with concern, Harry reaches across the table and places his hand on Anthony’s. His thumb strokes gently over Anthony’s knuckles, before he realizes what he’s doing -- a gesture of comfort that he often reserved for Ginny in the past -- and pulls back. “You, er, that is, you and your dad don’t get along so well then?” he stutters awkwardly, knowing that he’s likely flushed a bright red from the heat he feels in his cheeks.
If Anthony feels awkward, he doesn’t show it, and Harry finds that quite helpful in stemming the tide of embarrassment. “It isn’t so much that we don’t get along, as that I feel I’ve disappointed him.” He glances up at Harry, a curious expression on his face. “It doesn’t even matter that he’s never actually said anything. There’s just a sense I feel with him that I didn’t follow the plan he had in mind for me, so I’m never quite going to be good enough.”
Eyes narrowing as he considers, Harry absently reaches across the table with a fork and spears the last bit of Anthony’s melitzanes for himself. “It’s your life, though. It shouldn’t matter what his plan was, as long as you’re happy with what you’ve accomplished,” he replies, popping the fried eggplant slice in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “You are happy, aren’t you?”
“I’m not unhappy,” Anthony answers, an unreadable expression on his face.
Harry certainly understands that feeling. “It isn’t,” he hesitates a moment, “it isn’t enough though, is it?”
“Being not unhappy?” Anthony runs a hand through his curls, sighing gently, and Harry fights the sudden urge to reach out and do the same. Something about Anthony is familiar in a warm, pleasant way, but Harry can’t quite figure out what it is. “No,” Anthony then continues, “I should say that it isn’t. I think we all deserve a shot at real happiness, but for whatever reason, the great plan hasn’t seemed to work out just yet.”
Anthony’s tone isn’t bitter, but resigned in a way that tugs fiercely at Harry’s heart. He knows exactly how it feels to want something more, to make plans and try to act on them, only to still feel that happiness or whatever else he’s searching for remains out of reach.
Before he can respond, the waitress arrives with their entrees. “Here you are, Mr. Potter, your arnisia paidakai,” she says, placing the dish in front of Harry with a dazzling smile. “I know you’re going to love it. It’s one of the house specialties and Chef Rousakis,” she places Anthony’s dish in front of him without a glance, “says that your meal is on him tonight. He hopes you really enjoy it!”
“I’m sure I will,” he replies, eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. Anthony bites down on his lower lip, as if to keep from laughing, and his eyes are bright with amusement. “And I’m sure that Tony will enjoy his as well.” He gestures across the table, and Anthony gives her a jaunty smile and a quirk of his eyebrows.
“Right, of course,” she replies offhandedly, before turning immediately back to Harry with enthusiasm. “If you need anything, please just call me over. I’ll be back to check again in a few minutes.” She grins, lingers briefly, and then heads away.
Anthony laughs brightly, and Harry cannot help but join him. There’s something infectious in Anthony’s mirth, something that doesn’t quite match with his more serious-seeming face and the tone that their conversation had carried before they were interrupted. In fact, Anthony really does look quite handsome -- but that’s not right, it’s more than Anthony looks quite attractive when he’s laughing and smiling.
It’s not all that disconcerting anymore, Harry can admit, to be attracted to a man, though perhaps a bit surprising. He’s known for a long time that he’s not necessarily exclusively attracted to women. Oliver Wood comes to mind, as does a regrettable crush on Bill Weasley. He just dated and later married Ginny, like the hero of the story was supposed to marry his dream girl, and since their divorce, he hadn’t really had the opportunity to explore. It seemed odd to him for a family man to experiment, no matter if he wanted to or not. That time was supposed to have passed him by already, but he cannot deny that there is something here -- something between Anthony and himself.
“Do you think it will ever end?” Anthony asks, between chuckles.
“What?”
He sighs gently out of his laughter, before reaching for a fork and tucking into his meal. “The obsession with your celebrity.”
Shrugging, Harry follows suit, picking up his own fork and getting himself a bite. “I hope it does, but I’m not holding my breath,” he says, raising his eyes to Anthony. “At least it isn’t as bad as it used to be.”
“Only one story in the Prophet a week, instead of every day?” Anthony teases.
“Something like that,” Harry replies, shrugging again. It’s not really something he wants to talk about. He’s never been comfortable with fame, especially when it was at its height in the direct aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war. All he wanted was to finally have a normal life, but it had remained elusive. Every significant event in his life had been a media circus, and even the insignificant ones had often been newsworthy.
“The worst,” he then continued, unsure of why he was confessing it exactly, except that it felt in line with what Anthony had asked for from him in the first place, “was when Jamie was born. We had paparazzi disguised as Healers and mediwitches at St. Mungo’s in the hopes that they’d be the first to get a picture of ‘The Potter Baby’.” A frustrated noise comes from the back of his throat, and he reaches for the wine bottle and empties the rest into his glass, as he remembers the anger and tension that he felt at what should have been a purely joyful moment. “God, I just got so … so angry. I don’t think I’d ever been that angry before or since.”
“I remember reading about that,” Anthony replies, head cocking slightly. “It was such an invasion of privacy. It should have been something just for you and your wife -- not the whole world.” He smiles wistfully, and something deep in Harry that he hadn’t even been aware of before unclenches.
“Thank you. Not many people agree with you on that,” Harry says, then takes a few more bites, eyes fixed on his plate briefly as he savors the meal which, as promised, is completely delicious. But when he looks up again, noticing that Anthony has fallen silent, he sees the strange look on the man’s face. “Alright, Tony?”
Anthony nods, but he says nothing for a moment and looks down at his own food.
Deliberately this time, Harry sets down his fork and reaches across the table to take Anthony’s hand into his own. “Don’t get quiet on me now,” Harry says softly, letting his thumb brush along Anthony’s knuckles. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I promise,” Anthony responds, his eyes fixed on their joined hands. Again, Harry can see something odd in Anthony’s expression, but he isn’t wary or concerned about what it could mean. He feels at ease, for what reason he doesn’t know, here with this man who has invited him to share things he hasn’t shared with anyone in a long while -- whether Anthony knows or not what he’s done. Anthony then looks up, and the corner of his lip twitches upward in amusement or pleasure, Harry isn’t sure. His thumb lifts slightly to catch Harry’s, acknowledging the touch and keeping it in place. “What are you doing, Harry?” he adds, knowingly.
“I don’t know, what am I doing?” Harry replies evenly, eyes never leaving Anthony’s. He feels charged somehow, electric. Something is happening between them, something that Harry was almost certain he wouldn’t ever experience again, after Ginny and all his failed attempts at relationships since their divorce. He wonders if it’s because he has been wanting to feel it or because the source is so unexpected -- or if it’s just real.
Anthony bites down on his lower lip, even white teeth scraping gently, and Harry cannot help but let his gaze fall there. “I told you I wasn’t expecting anything,” he says quietly, almost shyly.
“Neither was I,” Harry replies quickly. “Is it so wrong to happen anyway?”
“But you’re not … Harry, I didn’t ask you here to try and--”
“--you didn’t really ask me here at all,” Harry interrupts, a cheeky smile coming to his lips. His confidence has risen, all his nerves from earlier in the night melting away in the face of Anthony’s shy warmth. “You won me, remember?”
“I remember,” Anthony replies, giving Harry’s fingers a squeeze before letting go.
“So will you tell me what’s bothering you?” he asks, before casually returning to his meal. His fingers itch for contact again, but he can wait. After all, he’s not entirely sure what’s happening -- he only knows that he rather likes it.
Anthony says nothing for a moment, as if contemplating whether or not it would be going too far to say what he wants to say. Harry waits patiently, as he knows how irritating it can be to have someone push you when you don’t want to be pushed into talking. The last few months before he and Ginny filed for divorce were certainly a lesson in communication. Harry had always been the type to guard his deeper and less pleasant feelings, for fear of disrupting the semblance of normal that they had created, but all it had really served to do was fester resentment between the pair of them. When she called him on it, he retreated even further. Being open, now, is a nice change of pace.
“Children are a bit of a sensitive subject for me,” Anthony finally says. “My partner and I ended our relationship about six months ago because he didn’t want them, and I did.”
“Oh.” Harry glances away briefly, noticing their waitress hovering not too far and gives her a look and a shake of his head to indicate she should keep her distance for a bit, before turning back. He doesn’t want them interrupted anymore -- not when Anthony has grown serious. “Did you know he didn’t want children?”
Anthony scoffs a laugh and smirks bitterly down at his plate. “I did. We talked about it after a couple years together.” Sighing gently again, he looks up, fixing Harry with a look that clearly demonstrates how painful the subject is. “Quite pathetic of me, right? I suppose I thought because he was older than me, he’d eventually feel that biological urge to procreate.” He laughs again, uncomfortably this time.
Harry isn’t sure what the right response is -- it was one fight that he and Ginny never had. They had both wanted to start a family, and in fact, had begun trying in earnest on their honeymoon. His children mean the absolute world to him, and he can’t imagine what his life would be like without them. “It isn’t too late for you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he offers.
“No, I know that, but I suppose I’m more upset about it because I spent ten years with Alfie trying to change his mind instead of finding someone else who could make me happy and give me the family that I wanted.” Anthony breathes the last of it, and Harry can hear the ache in his words, the absolute want and desire for something so precious. It breaks his heart a little. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Anthony continues, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stem the tide of emotion that has suddenly swelled, “I don’t mean to be such a downer. God, I’ve been completely awful this whole evening, haven’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say completely awful,” Harry teases, trying to coax a smile out of Anthony. Despite how it might have seemed, he was having a nice time, even if their conversation had been more on the morose side. It had been so long since someone had wanted to really talk to him, trust him with something beyond the typical pleasantries or the mindless chatter. Whatever direction their conversation had taken, at least it was a real conversation -- exactly what Anthony had asked for earlier. “But I do think we need some dessert.”
Anthony nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Dessert is definitely necessary.”
Harry then casually raises a hand, only to have their eager waitress immediately rush over to the table. He glances again at Anthony, happy to see the man chuckle quietly again. “We’d like an order of baklava to go, and the bill please.”
“Oh, but Mr. Potter, Chef Rousakis said--”
“--oh, that’s right. Well, I suppose just the baklava, then. And do give my compliments and gratitude to Mr. Rousakis,” he finishes, eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. He practically beams with pleasure when he sees Anthony smile brightly again. And when the waitress flits off to the kitchen, he winks at Anthony. “So I guess the celebrity thing comes in handy sometimes.”
“I guess it does. So where are we going?” he asks, a faint flush in his cheeks that Harry finds ridiculously endearing. It seems their positions have reversed entirely. Perhaps it’s a Gryffindor thing, though -- Harry finds his courage and tenacity just when he needs it most.
“I was thinking maybe a walk in Victory Park? It’s really nice this time of night,” Harry answers.
Anthony nods. “I’d like that very much.”
--- --- ---
The night air is cool, but pleasant, and the company more so. Harry can’t help but smile every time his fingers brush gently against Anthony’s, as they walk together along the winding path in Victory Park. He almost feels like a teenager again, his stomach fluttering with butterflies, and when they reach the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Fountain, he takes a seat on the fountain’s edge and tugs Anthony down next to him.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, as he carefully opens the takeaway carton that holds their baklava.
“Anything,” Anthony replies, reaching for a piece. He slides a bit closer as he does so, until his thigh rests lightly against Harry’s own.
Pleased by their proximity, no matter how unused to such things he is, Harry sets the carton down to the side and picks up a piece of his own. “Why did you bid on me really? I know you said conversation, but you could have gotten that with anyone. Why me, specifically?” he asks seriously, before popping a small bite of the sweet, savory pastry into his mouth.
Anthony stretches his legs out in front of himself, crossing them lightly at the ankle. “I’ve always been interested in you, Harry,” he confesses, turning his head to Harry for a moment, before turning back and looking ahead into the distance. “Ever since we were in school together. I was always fascinated by you, and I wanted a chance to get to know you.”
“Fascinated by me?” Harry says, his tone sharpening. Anthony had said before that he didn’t care about the Boy Who Lived, but that’s who Harry was when they’d first met. They hadn’t really been friends, nor had they gotten to know each other when they were in school together, having been in different Houses. He’d met plenty of people in his life who were fascinated by him, and it had never turned out particularly well. Hell, even Ginny, to an extent, had been fascinated by him when they were young, and even though she had given him a family and had loved him for a long time, it hadn’t worked out either.
As if he knows where Harry’s train of thought has gone, Anthony carefully sets down his pastry and places a hand on Harry’s knee. “I meant what I said before, Harry. I don’t care about the Boy Who Lived. That boy doesn’t fascinate me -- you do.” He pauses briefly and looks Harry straight in the eye, all truth and seriousness. “The Boy Who Lived is just a legend, a story we tell our youth to make them believe in heroes and let them know that they can do anything as long as they’re willing to love and sacrifice and work hard. Harry Potter is just a man,” he squeezes Harry’s knee gently, “a good man, trying to live his life and be happy. That’s the man I’m interested in.”
“You hardly know me,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper, and his hand comes down to catch Anthony’s there on his knee.
“That’s why I bid on you, Harry,” Anthony replies, smiling gently. “I wanted to get to know you. I’ve been waiting quite a long time for the chance, and I finally got it.”
“You could have just asked me out.” Harry turns slightly so that they’re facing each other better now, and his hand slides up, hesitating only briefly before trailing along Anthony’s cheek and cupping his jawline.
Anthony’s breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes fall closed. “I didn’t realize that you would have said yes. I didn’t know that you were--”
“--let’s just say that I’m glad you won,” Harry interrupts, leaning closer. He’s never done this before, kissed a man, and while he knows it isn’t really all that different from kissing a woman, he feels a slight flutter of nerves. Somehow, though, the nerves steel his resolve. It’s normal -- Harry likes normal.
The press of their lips is faint, just a ghosting of skin against skin, until Anthony’s hand comes up to tug gently at the front of Harry’s robes, pulling him closer. Harry doesn’t care that they’re in public and anyone could see and go running to the Prophet with a scoop about The Chosen One. Because right now, he’s not the Chosen One. He’s not the Boy Who Lived or the Vanquisher of Voldemort. He’s not any of those things.
He’s Harry. Just Harry.