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Gregory Goyle sat on the hard bench in the courtroom gallery as an Incarceroused Draco Malfoy was brought to the stand.

Greg wasn’t sure why he had come. He hadn’t met eyes with a single person all day without receiving a disgusted look. Those who had Death Eater sympathies were disgusted because he hadn’t taken the Mark, hadn’t really participated in the war. Those on the winning side were disgusted because he was his father’s son, had helped Draco in school, had used Cruciatus on students at the Carrows’ orders.

He’d wanted to come, even though it meant coming back to the place where he’d watched his father sentenced to life in Azkaban, because he knew that if he were being tried, he’d want Draco to be there. And no matter what you could say about Draco, or about their friendship (was it even a friendship?), Draco would’ve come to Greg’s trial.

Though Greg wasn’t being tried at all. It had been determined that he’d done nothing worthy of criminal charges. The fact that he’d used an Unforgivable had been weighed against the fact that he had been following a professor’s orders in a school, and the new administration had decided to err on the side of leniency with students.

Except with Draco, of course.

A man in front of the Wizengamot began to speak. “Criminal hearing of the third of June, 1998, into the criminal charges against Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Greg tuned out the droning voice and looked at Draco. Draco looked like shit. Dozens of memories of Draco getting dressed in the Slytherin dorm passed through Greg’s mind. “That’s cashmere, Greg, don’t touch it.” Draco rubbing some sort of hair salve on his hands and running it through his blond hair. That time that Draco had discovered one of Vince’s hairs in the salve and had thrown the tin at Vince’s head.

Greg shook his head, willing the memories to stop.

Greg knew Draco would be horrified to look like he currently did in the Great Hall, much less here. It didn’t seem right. Someone should’ve let Draco have his hair salve and his poncey jumpers.

“The charges against the accused are as follows,” the man in the plum-coloured robes continued, “Treason, in that he did knowingly and willingly enter into Tom Riddle’s service.”

Greg frowned. He would never get used to them calling the Dark Lord “Tom Riddle.”

“Accomplice to murder, in that he provided safe passage for those known as Death Eaters into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Attempted murder, in that he willfully and with premeditation planned to kill Albus Dumbledore. Assault, in that he harmed both Ronald Weasley and Katie Bell in the course of his attempted murder.”

Greg looked up at the ceiling. It was domed and had arches.

All the jealousy he had ever felt towards Draco had morphed into an all-consuming guilt. If Greg had wished for the Mark, why was he still free? If he had wanted—at one time, more than anything—to be given a task by Voldemort, why was he not as guilty as Draco?

Draco had done all the things that bloke in the plum-coloured robes said. He’d end up in Azkaban with Greg’s father and Vince’s father and Draco’s father, and where would that leave Greg? Some days it seemed like Vince—that absolute moron, that gormless git with his bloody fire, doing stupid things that left Greg behind without him—had gotten the best deal of them all.

He felt like one of those children’s toys from Zonko’s that had built-in charms to make heavy things float. Like that time he’d used it to charm a big rock and he had watched it bob around in a lake—aimless and eerily buoyant, bobbing around like a cork even though it was too dense for all that—until the charm wore off and the rock sunk.

Greg couldn’t handle this, after all. He was in the back, and there was a door right there. As he left the courtroom, he heard, “Harry James Potter, to testify on behalf of the accused.”

The Great Hall seemed so loud these days. It seemed like happiness and childhood and like all the noise was coming from people who had somehow been able to forget the war.

Not the eighth-year table, though. The eighth-year table was quieter; it was obvious no one there had yet forgotten the war.

There was an open seat next to Draco, and Greg headed for it. Draco was looking better now, though not as alive as had looked before sixth year. Greg supposed maybe none of them would ever look quite that alive again. Even Harry Potter looked like shit these days.

He slumped awkwardly next to Draco on the bench, which was really sized for lanky preteens and had never quite fit his frame.

Draco looked up. “Morning.”

“Hey, Draco.” Greg helped himself to some sausages and eggs, trying not to look at the beans that had been Vince’s favourite.

“You don’t have to sit by me anymore.”

Greg, confused, looked at Draco. “What are you talking about?”

Draco looked right at him, which was honestly a bit unnerving. It was something Draco had never really done. “I treated you like vermin for years. And now I’m the most hated person in Hogwarts. You don’t need to sit by me out of pity,” Draco waved his fork around, “or loyalty, or whatever.”

Greg stared at him for a long moment.

“I’m not going to boss you around anymore,” Draco added.

Greg reached his fork over to Draco’s plate and stabbed one of his rejected bits of sausage. Draco hated the ends of the sausage. Greg ate it.

“You’re such a tosser,” he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow, sighed, looked at the ceiling. After a moment, he looked back at Greg. “I’m serious. This is me saying I’m sorry.”

What the fuck. What did Draco have to be sorry for? If anyone should be apologizing it was fucking Vince. Or Greg’s fucking father. Or fucking Voldemort.

“Shut the fuck up, Draco.”

Draco, though, in typical fashion, did not look like he was going to shut the fuck up. He opened his mouth and raised a finger in the air.

And, actually, that was a cheerful thought. Draco wasn’t meant to be sitting around sulking and silently staring at his plate. He was meant to be ranting about pointless shit and acting like a swot or a twat, depending on the context.

But Draco did shut up, because just then Potter sat down across from them. What was Potter doing sitting near them when there were a bunch of prissy Hufflepuffs smiling down the other end of the table? Where were his sidekicks? Probably off snogging, if the scene from the eighth-year common room the previous night was any indication.

Upon seeing their surprised faces, Potter nodded at them in greeting and silently began filling his plate with toast and fruit.

No fucking wonder Potter looked like such shit if he wasn’t even going to eat any protein.

And Potter did look like shit. The dark circles around his eyes looked like Draco’s, looked like what Greg’d seen in the mirror that morning.

Greg took a bite of egg. “We all look like arse,” he said around his mouthful. “Have done for awhile now. Do you think we’ll all look this ugly forever, or does it wear off at some point?”

Draco and Potter looked at him, similar looks of surprise on their faces, and laughed.

Greg opened the door to the library and walked inside, feeling supremely out of place. How had he ended up here?

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually put effort into schoolwork. Maybe never. He remembered the feeling of nearly failing all his courses in first year and deciding that it’d be less painful if he just didn’t try. If you didn’t try, the outcome didn’t really reflect on you. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself. And then he’d known he’d go work for Voldemort. Voldemort didn’t ask for O.W.L.s.

Now Greg had no idea what to he was going to do, and he’d accomplished nothing in his seven years of school except nearly failing all his courses. The only thing he’d put any effort into was Dark Arts, because that was the only thing he thought he’d need.

He was good at Cruciatus. The only thing he was good at was making people feel misery and pain. That skill wasn’t going to help much now, and it was almost time for exams before the holiday, so he was at the library. What a fucking nightmare.

Since it was almost exam time, the library was busy. Most of the tables were occupied with tiny little firsties practicing Wingardium Leviosa. Catching a flash of white-blond hair, Greg let out a breath of relief. He walked sideways between the tables, his bag bumping into people on either side as he tried to squeeze through. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “‘scuse me,” and tried not to notice the nasty looks he was getting from people the size of his leg.

He stopped short when he reached Draco’s table, noticing that he was sat with Potter, Weasley, and Granger.

Draco looked up. “Hi Greg. Would you like to sit?”

Draco cleared some of his papers and Greg sat. Potter and Granger nodded politely. Weasley nodded impolitely. It was all very surreal.

Scrunching his brow, Greg pulled out a parchment and a Self-Inking Quill. He took a breath and concentrated on the quill in his hand.

Why are you sitting with Potter?

He slid the parchment to Draco, noticing as he did so that Granger was looking at him curiously.

I was here first and they sat, Draco’s neat handwriting informed him when the parchment slid back under his nose.

This whole year was so weird. Sometimes he wondered whether Vince was up there somewhere, looking down on them, laughing his stupid arse off.

“Hey Draco,” Potter said, “I’m done with these notes.” He pushed Draco’s tidy notes across the table. “Thanks for letting me use them. Did you still want to work on that Advanced Shield we learned in DADA?”

“Yes, thanks, that would be good,” Draco said, sounding stilted and nervous.

Greg looked resolutely at his History of Magic book. Something strange was going on with Draco and Potter. Why were they sitting together? Why had Potter called him “Draco”?

People always underestimated Greg, assumed that because he wasn’t the smartest of the group that he didn’t notice things. He noticed well enough, and his invisibility had been an asset in the war. If people saw Draco, they’d shut their mouths and narrow their eyes. But when they saw Greg and Vince people’d assumed they were too dumb to notice anything, to figure out what was going on. Half of the things Draco had learned and acted on during the war had been discovered by Greg and Vince reporting back to him.

And Greg was noticing now, as he watched Draco and Potter. He’d ask Draco about it later, or maybe he’d save it up for a time when he really wanted to get under Draco’s skin.

He looked back at his book. McGonagall had made History of Magic a required course for eighth years and she’d hired an actual, living professor to teach it. Greg sighed. He supposed that was part of his punishment for being a minor player in a fucking war: being forced to sit through history lectures.

He didn’t hate the lectures though, surprisingly. It was like, a chance to actually try to figure out what had happened in the past. Salazar knew that Greg wished he could figure out what had happened in his own fucking life.

This chapter was about the 1612 Goblin Rebellion, which was actually pretty interesting. The problem was that all the goblins’ names kind of sounded alike and Greg had a hell of a time remembering who was who. Urg, Ug. Ragnuk, Nagnok. Fuck that noise.

Greg kept his eyes on his page but his brain wandered and he found himself overhearing a bizarre conversation between Draco and Potter.

“How’s your mother?” Potter asked.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“She’s fine, thanks.” Draco paused. “How did your potion turn out earlier?”

Greg could hear the smirk in Draco’s voice. Was he back to taunting Potter now? That didn’t seem smart, all things considered.

But Potter only snorted. “Fuck off,” he said with a laugh. “I think my potions are doomed to keep exploding unless someone helps me.”

Greg looked up for a moment as Granger choked on something, then looked back at his book, trying to concentrate on Nagnok—no, Ragnuk.

“I would be willing to help you,” Draco said in a quiet voice, as if wishing that only Potter could hear him. Of course, Draco knew that Greg had amazing hearing. He’d used Greg as a spy enough times to know that.

“Er,” said Potter, and that was Draco’s cue to make a joke about how Potter didn’t speak well. But Draco didn’t interrupt. “Er, okay. Tomorrow night after dinner? I’ll help you with the Shield and you can help me with Potions?”

“That would be good,” Draco answered.

Merlin. It looked like the suspicion he and Vince had whispered about in fourth year was finally going to be proven right. Greg tried not to think about what Vince would’ve said about it, how they would’ve taken the piss, if he were still here.

He looked back at the page. Goblin rights. Goblins had magic and wanted rights the way magical humans had rights. Greg honestly had no idea what to make of it. His head swam with dozens of derogatory and offensive comments about goblins that he’d heard growing up. He could hear the ghosts of nasty jokes echo through his brain in his father’s snarling voice every time he tried to read. He sighed.

If he were honest and if he allowed himself to think about it—which didn’t happen very often—Greg was glad the war had ended the way it had. Things had been chaos. Things had been—he’d been constantly worried that his father or Draco or one of his other friends or he would be killed on a whim. He had less power now, sure, and his father—who was an arse—was in prison, but at least he wasn’t constantly worried that his mother would be found dead. At least now he knew what to expect when he woke up in the morning.

Ragnok. No, Ragnuk. He tried to concentrate, but Potter was tapping his quill on the table and making it hard for him to keep his mind on the paragraph.

“Greg.”

He looked up. It was Granger who had spoken. “Granger.”

“You can call me Hermione, if you like.”

Fat chance. He’d only just convinced his internal voice to stop calling her “the Mudblood.” Aloud, he said, “Okay.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous,” she said. “But, has anyone ever tested you for dyslexia?”

Greg didn’t know what that was. He looked at Draco, hoping for guidance, but Draco was looking at Granger with curiosity.

“I dunno.”

“It’s, well. Do you read slowly and have trouble keeping your mind on your reading? Find it difficult to get through long books? Mix up letters when you’re spelling?”

Greg laughed, hoping to sound like he was scoffing, but he was pretty sure he just sounded nervous. “Uhh, yeah? Doesn’t everyone? Everyone who’s not a swot like you and Draco, anyway?”

Her face was terribly kind, and he really didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of it. “Well, no,” she said. “I know a spell that can change the font—the way the letters appear on the page—that might make it easier for you. Would you like me to try it?”

Greg looked at Draco, but Draco only shrugged. He needed to stop looking to Draco for things—it was a hard habit to break. Draco wasn’t going to tell him what to do anymore.

“Uhhh, okay,” he said, and held out his book.

Hermione looked at Draco, as if to make sure he was watching so he could learn the spell. And he would. Draco always learned spells quickly by watching like that. Not like when Greg tried to learn a new spell.

“Facile Legere,” she said with a wave of her wand.

Greg took the book that she handed back to him. It no longer looked like impenetrable calligraphy. The letters looked different, clearer. The spacing was better, and it looked like maybe the bottom of the letters were fatter, anchored better to the page.

“Thanks, Granger,” he said, looking up at her with surprise.

“No problem. I can get some more information about it for you, if you like.”

Greg didn’t allow himself to look at Draco. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

She smiled and turned back to her work. He looked curiously at the book, and surprised himself by getting through the page.

The eighth-year common room had a kitchen, because the Headmistress said they “needed to be prepared to feed themselves upon graduation.” It was stocked with a bunch of books with titles like The Hungry Wizard, The Magic of Cooking, 101 Essential Cooking Spells, How To Cook Everything, and A Man, A Plan, A Can.

Greg was always hungry. It came with being eighteen and what his mother called “husky.” He was big—not fat, just big, and always hungry.

So he found himself wandering into the eighth-year kitchen fairly often. Hermione had noticed and had cast the dyslexia spell at the books, making it easier for him to read them.

The cookbooks were interesting. He liked looking at the glossy photos of the food and reading about the ingredients. It wasn’t like trying to read about History of Magic. It was fun reading—a little anecdote about a recipe, followed by clear directions. The directions reminded him of Potions class, but like, much less intimidating.

He looked at the shelf of cookbooks, selected a plain-looking one called How To Bake With Magic. He flopped into a big cushy armchair by the fire and opened the book. There were chapters on bread, pastries, cakes, puddings, and pies.

Bread seemed hard. Maybe he ought to start with cake. Cake was always a good idea.

Just then a bunch of eighth years came in from playing Quidditch. Greg hadn’t gone—he still didn’t really know how to act in front of these people from other Houses. He didn’t understand what they wanted from him, how they wanted him to act.

Draco had gone, though, when Potter asked him, and now the two of them were red-faced from the cold and teasing and nudging each other with elbows.

Draco seemed to be adjusting to his new social reality better than Greg was, and Greg didn’t quite know what to make of that. Was it because Draco was smart—really smart? And could figure it out? Figure out what he was supposed to do?

Or maybe it was because of Potter. Greg glanced up. Potter was smiling a lopsided smile, his hair wild, his glasses crooked on his face. He had eyes only for Draco, and Draco was teasing and giving Potter a haughty smirk that Greg knew indicated Draco’s supreme amusement. Greg wondered if Potter knew how to read that smirk—if Potter realised how into him Draco was.

He wondered if Draco even realised. He must—Draco was smart. But sometimes smart people were kind of dumb.

Greg would surely feel more anchored to the social group if some cute girl had taken an interest in him and was inviting him to things all the time and looking at him with that spark in her eyes.

Whatever. He looked back at the book.

“Naturally, whenever you’re making a cake or pudding, you want it to turn out perfectly. The real keys to success are accuracy and taking your time over the presentation.”

Draco and Potter sat on the sofa.

“Hey, Goyle,” Potter said.

“Hi,” he replied, still looking at the page.

“Are you making something?” Potter asked.

Greg looked up, shrugged. “Just looking.”

Draco smiled, peering at the page Greg was reading. “Good choice. Everyone likes cake.” He was back to looking at Potter already. “Or treacle tart.”

Potter laughed, leaning to bump Draco’s shoulder with his own. “Oh, shut up. Like you don’t eat three pieces of lemon drizzle every time they have it after dinner.”

Bloody Merlin, was Greg meant to sit and watch this?

“Hey, have you guys ever watched this new cooking show Nigella Bites?” Potter asked.

“On the telly thing?” Greg asked, interested despite his reservations about chumming it up with Potter.

“Yeah, hold on, I think I can get it on because of the magic Hermione’s hooked up to the telly in here.”

Potter got up and started fussing with the telly, waving his wand at it for a bit. Greg looked at Draco, but Draco shrugged. They were both trying to pretend that they weren’t idiots about things like tellies.

Suddenly Potter stepped back, a look of triumph on his face, and a brunette woman on the screen was saying, “I’ve never understood it when people say they’re too busy to eat lunch. Or even that they forget.” She was sashaying through a house, her breasts looking squeezable. “No matter how busy I am, I always find time to eat.”

Well fucking hell. Greg could watch this woman talk all day.

Potter flopped down on the sofa next to Draco as the woman threw a handful of pancetta into a skillet. She held up a chunk of meat. “This wonderful slab of streaky bacon,” she said, looking at him right out of the telly.

“I think I’m in love,” Greg announced, eyes on the screen.

Potter and Draco laughed loudly as they settled in to watch the pancetta sizzle.

Greg and Draco walked into the library, Draco prattling on about something to do with Quidditch and a bet that Potter had made with Weasley. Greg couldn’t figure out why he was supposed to care.

They reached a long table with empty seats at one end. Draco pulled out the wooden chair and put his bag down next to one of the tall white candles along center of the table. Greg sat across from him, and as he did he saw a girl two seats away—a sixth year Ravenclaw—crinkle her nose at him, quickly gather her books, and leave to look for a different seat.

Greg didn’t blame her. Not really. In fact, he could never be sure when he saw younger students if they were one of the ones he’d Cruciatused last year. There had been so many, presented to him by the Carrows, and he hadn’t looked at their faces when he channeled his anger and frustration with himself and with the war into a spell that caused their bodies to writhe with unbearable pain.

He wouldn’t want to sit near himself, either.

He didn’t feel remorse, exactly. He had known he was doing something awful when he did it, and he’d done it anyway because he had been told to. There really had been no other way, though it would be a lie to say he’d looked for another way. He’d just done it. Greg didn’t feel much of anything about any of it—it was just what had happened.

How do you move on from that? He didn’t blame the girl for moving.

When he placed his book on the table in front of him, he noticed Draco was giving him a strange look. “What?”

“I—” Draco looked upset. “I’m sorry. If it wasn’t for me, if I hadn’t bossed you around for years and gotten you involved in the shit I did—”

Greg realised, looking at Draco now, that Draco did feel remorse.

“I was arrogant,” Draco continued, “and I should’ve been strong enough to admit to myself and to everyone else when I realised how far in over my head I was, how insane the Dark Lord was, it’s my fault you’re—”

Greg couldn’t listen to this anymore. “Draco, shut the fuck up.”

“No, I need to—”

“No,” Greg hissed, and now he had Draco’s attention. “No. I know you’ve been a wreck since shit got real in sixth year. I watched all your moral dilemmas and your angst about it. I suspect you found small ways to help Potter back then, even though you’d never admit it. Whatever, you can feel bad for the rest of your life about what you did and didn’t do, I don’t care. But you don’t get to blame yourself about me, or about Vince.”

“But—”

“No, listen to me, you stupid toff.” Greg was right angry now, he could feel the heat in his neck and an uncharacteristic fire in his belly.

Draco finally stopped talking, looking oddly defeated.

“If anything, you saved my stupid arse. If it wasn’t for you, Vince and I would’ve been the sons of Death Eaters here and all the shit that got directed at you would’ve got thrown at us. But you were smarter, and prettier, and you got all the attention. Which was right lucky for me, because I would surely have ended up dead otherwise. And don’t you dare feel bad about Vince, because that motherfucker almost killed us both in addition to himself, and that was his fault. The students hate you because you were a Death Eater, but you didn’t even fucking do anything, Draco! You didn’t kill Dumbledore. You didn’t kill Potter! They hate me because I actually fucking used Cruciatus on them, or on their friends. They can hate me, if they want. That’s just how things are.”

Draco blinked at him.

Greg looked down at his book. Fuck, he hated talking about shit like this. He hated people telling him how he should feel. After he calmed down enough that his neck no longer felt hot, after a few minutes, he felt like he should say something. He looked up at Draco.

“So are you and Potter fucking yet?”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but Greg could tell he was secretly pleased with the taunt.

Greg yelled as Draco’s Stinging Hex hit his arm. One of these years he really needed to learn how to block that spell.

Their new History professor, a witch named Bronwyn Highmore, loved to assign the eighth-year class into small groups to “discuss and dissect the lesson.”

Greg had no idea what the fuck she meant, really. The lesson wasn’t a frog. This wasn’t Potions.

And Highmore always assigned the war heroes with the war villains. It didn’t take much smarts to realise what she was trying to do.

Today Greg was partnered with Potter and Boot, and Draco was partnered with Granger and Macmillan.

“Alright,” Boot said, with a despicable Ravenclawish level of enthusiasm. “We’re meant to discuss the social conditions of the 1950s and 60s with an eye toward understanding causes of the First War.”

“Well,” said Potter, fiddling with his quill and flipping through his book, “we could start with the election of Nobby Leach as Minister for Magic in 1962—the first Muggle-born to hold the position. Says here a bunch of members of the Wizengamot resigned in protest. So it, um, increased division over blood status?”

Greg snorted. “Knobhead Leach.”

Boot’s and Potter’s heads snapped up in horror.

Fuck. Looked like he wasn’t supposed to use that nickname anymore. Greg had spent his entire childhood listening to adults make fun of that guy; he’d never once heard any person defend anything about Leach. He’d only heard joke after joke about his incompetence, his lack of understanding of anything about magical culture, his reportedly small penis. Those were the only things he knew about the guy.

Boot broke the silence. “Anyway. Leach was elected when Ignatius Tuft got forced out for wanting to start a dangerous Dementor-breeding programme. Leach seemed like a safer, more progressive candidate in contrast.”

“But then people didn’t anticipate there would be blowback from electing a Muggle-born?” asked Potter, who seemed to be trying.

At least Potter was just clueless, having grown up hearing nothing about any of this. Clueless would be easier.

Boot answered. “My dad always said that some people thought there was no way a Muggle-born could understand all the issues that would come before the Office of the Minister. They thought it meant he wouldn’t be able to do his job.”

“Well, could he?” Greg asked, hoping he managed not to sound like an arse this time.

“I didn’t know about magic until I was eleven,” Potter said, “so I think I can say with some confidence that it’s harder to grasp all of it when you haven’t grown up with it. But of course it’s possible, even if it’s harder.”

“Yeah, Leach did fine,” Boot said. “Until he came down with that mysterious illness.”

Greg managed not to look over at Draco, whose family was supposed to be responsible for said illness. It would definitely be easier, from the perspective of passing Highmore’s course, if he didn’t have all these bits of his parents’ dinner-party-politics chatter clogging up his brain.

Were Highmore and Boot trying to brainwash him again, only this time with different chatter? How the fuck was he ever supposed to know what was true?

He looked at Potter. Of course Potter could be Minister, even though he hadn’t known about magic until he was eleven. Not that Potter seemed the type to want to be Minister.

“As you know, all of that was a precursor to the pure-blood riots during Squib Rights marches in the late sixties,” Boot continued.

Greg sighed and looked back at his book.

“Basic White Bread. Here, in this first recipe, we’ll reduce decisions to a minimum and put all of these extra facts into footnotes. You should be able to make this loaf successfully the first time around without referring to a single one of the notes.”

Okay. He could do this. He grabbed a packet of yeast.

“Pour the contents of the package into ½ cup of warm water, add 2 tsp sugar, stir, set aside.”

He cast an Aguamenti at a measuring cup, poured it in a bowl, and cast a warming charm at it.

“Hello.”

Greg looked up. Draco had just sat at the counter in the eighth-year kitchen. “Hey.”

“What are you making?” Draco asked, biting into a green apple.

“Bread,” he murmured, checking the yeast, which was starting to bubble satisfyingly.

“Damn, I was hoping for another cupcake,” Draco said with a smile.

“Those did come out good, didn’t they?” Greg asked, grinning. “But everyone likes bread.”

“Yes.” Draco fiddled with the apple. “Think we can make treacle tart next?”

Greg raised his eyebrows. Draco probably didn’t realise he was more than capable of putting two and two together.

But all he said was, “Sure.”

Draco smiled. “Is this recipe from your girlfriend?” he asked, pointing at the book Greg was consulting.

Greg raised a floury finger in Draco’s direction. “I will help you make bloody treacle tart for your bloody boyfriend without even saying a word about it, but don’t you dare say anything bad about Nigella.”

Draco laughed, his face relaxed and amused. Greg smiled.

When the year had started, Greg had been wondering when things could get back to the way they’d been fifth year. He realised now, looking at Draco laughing about Potter, that things wouldn’t ever be like they had been before the war, when they were idiot children. But this was good. This was...more real.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Draco said, looking down at the counter.

“Okay,” Greg mumbled, casting a Sifting Charm at the flour and dipping a measuring cup into it. He measured a tablespoon of salt and cast a Distribution Charm at the bowl.

“I think he might be interested,” Draco said softly. “But I can’t very well date him. Me. Date. The Saviour.”

“Okay,” Greg repeated. He had no interest in offering his opinion unless it was bloody well asked for.

“It’s too insane.”

“No more insane than me and Nigella,” Greg said, brushing his hair away from his forehead and wondering idly whether he was covered in flour.

Draco laughed, then stared at his apple some more. “It’s just—I’ll hold him back.” He looked up at Greg, wearing his angsty Draco face.

Greg cast a Warm-Water Aguamenti charm at the yeast mixture until it reached the 1.5-cup line. He poured the yeast mixture into the flour and stirred until it clumped into a sticky blob.

He put down the spoon, rolled up his sleeves, and plunged his hands into the dough. It was warm—pasty. He started to knead.

“How do you figure you’ll hold him back?” he asked, finally.

“The Prophet will say shit. People will think he’s lost the plot. They’ll think I dosed him with Amortentia. They’ll worry about his politics. They’ll dredge up the war.”

“I’m no expert,” Greg said, kneading, “but I think for something to be dredged it has to have already sunk.”

Draco laughed, but he still looked nervous. “Potter hates the coverage in the papers. He hates being the center of attention. I don’t want to make it worse. I’ve already done so much shit.”

Greg kneaded. The dough was starting to develop a glossy sheen. It wasn’t so sticky anymore.

“What do you think?” Draco asked.

Greg looked up, surprised. Draco was looking at him with curiosity, like he actually valued Greg’s opinion. Draco had never looked at him like that.

“I think Potter knows what he wants, and if what he wants is you, he would be pretty pissed at you for trying to shield him from it.”

Draco just looked at him.

“Potter doesn’t seem to do well with being told he can’t do things,” Greg continued, picking up the dough and turning it over with a smack.

Draco took a bite of his apple and chewed thoughtfully.

“Hey, Draco?” Greg said, and when Draco met his eyes he said, “This might be one of those awful times where you have to act like a Gryffindor.”

“Thanks, Greg,” Draco said, after he swallowed.

Greg poked the ball of dough and smiled when it sprang back like the recipe said it should.

“Fancy a fly when you’re done with the bread?” Draco asked.

“Sure,” Greg said.

And as he buttered a bowl for the dough to rise in, he thought for the first time that this—this place, this moment—this was only possible because they’d gone through the fucking war. He wasn’t sure he believed in prophecies and fate and rubbish like that, but could he be in a kitchen baking bread and pining after Nigella after any other course of events? Would Draco have stopped acting like a posh arse long enough to ask his advice about something?

Whatever. He was baking bread.

Greg sat awkwardly in a big circle of eighth-years in the common room. There were only a few weeks left before graduation, and the Patil twins had secretly brewed Veritaserum for Truth or Dare.

At the beginning of the year, he probably would’ve refused to play. But over the course of the year things had gotten easier, friendlier. It’s hard to be unpleasant to someone who’s made you bread.

Or treacle tart, Greg thought, glancing at Potter, who was arguing animatedly with Draco over something on the other side of the circle.

Greg didn’t have many secrets—everyone here already knew all his bad shit. And he could handle dares. His goal for this game was to do something about the Draco and Potter situation.

He took a sip of Firewhiskey that Macmillan had handed him. There was a giant plate of cookies he’d made in the center of the circle. Over the course of the year, this odd inter-house arrangement had become kind of nice.

Maybe the House system was bullshit, like the Ravenclaws always said.

“Alright!” cried the Gryffindor Patil. “I’m going first. Theo: truth or dare.”

Theo, who was skulking on the outskirts of the circle, opened his eyes wide. “Dare?”

Parvati walked up right in front of him. “I dare you to kiss me.”

Theo looked like he might keel over, and Greg laughed with the rest of the circle as he leaned forward and tentatively pressed his lips to Parvati’s. She grabbed his head and snogged him back.

The crowd whooped and laughed, clinking glasses and pouring more whiskey.

“Potter,” Theo said. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” he said without even thinking, like a stupid Gryffindor.

Parvati, who was still standing next to Theo, whispered something in his ear. Theo rolled his eyes, but then said, “I dare you to play the rest of the game with no shirt on.”

Greg’s eyes flitted to Draco, who looked pale. Served the idiot right for not coming clean with Potter yet.

Potter laughed, reached behind his head, grabbed the neck of his t-shirt, and pulled it off. Greg looked again at Draco, whose reaction he was more interested in than Potter’s chest, and Draco had leaned back on his arms, his gaze at the ceiling. Oh Merlin.

Greg wished Vince were here so he could laugh about it with someone.

“Goyle,” Potter said.

Oh.

“Truth or dare,” Potter asked.

Greg looked at Potter. He shrugged. “Dare.”

“I dare you to let Lavender practice her hair-lengthening charm on you.”

Greg shrugged again. “Sure.”

Lavender squeaked in excitement and ran over, twirling her wand. She walked around the perimeter of his body, assessing. Finally he felt a layer of magic settle on his head, and then the bizarre sensation of his hair rapidly lengthening from the roots. It hit his ears, then his shoulders. Lavender finally ended the charm when his hair had reached his mid-back.

“Wow,” Lavender said.

The crowd was in hysterics.

“Goyle,” Thomas yelled, “you look like Bon Jovi!”

Greg had no idea who that was. He hopped up and walked into the bathroom to look in the mirror. His medium-brown hair, which was a little curly when short, tumbled in cascades of curls down his back. He laughed and watched in surprise as his reflection laughed with him.

He rejoined the group, flinging his long hair behind his shoulder. It was weird, how did girls walk around with this all day?

“You should keep it long,” Granger said with a smile. “It looks good. Different.”

Greg gave her a small grin. “Different’s good.”

“It’s your turn, Goyle,” Parvati said.

“Draco,” he said without needing any time to consider. “Truth or dare.”

Draco glared at him. Greg smiled blithely. He didn’t give a crap what Draco threatened, he was going to do exactly what Draco feared, and there was no way for him to slither out of it unless he forfeited the game.

Greg could see the conflict on Draco’s face as he tried to decide which would be worse—having to admit that he was into Potter or having to do something like kiss Potter.

“Dare,” Draco said, and Greg smiled, because good—maybe that idiot would finally act like a Gryffindor for a moment.

“I dare you to snog Potter. Properly snog him. If you don’t do it properly I’m just going to make you do it again.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but though he was trying, he didn’t look menacing at all. He looked like he was about to be sick. The rest of the group was whooping and cheering, and someone pushed Potter forward. Draco met him in the center of the circle. Potter whispered something in Draco’s ear, and Draco stopped looking nervous. His face broke into a sly smile and he crashed his lips into Potter’s. Potter let out an “oomph!” at the impact, but then Potter was grabbing Draco’s head, and Draco was wrapping his arms around Potter’s bare back.

And just that quickly, it had gotten kind of gross. Merlin. Those two really needed a room because this was really not something Greg wanted to be watching.

Weasley, seemingly echoing Greg’s thoughts, yelled, “Oi! Enough! Go up to the dorm if you’re going to do that! For Merlin’s sake, keep your trousers on!”

Greg downed the rest of his whiskey with a smile on his face, watching as Draco and Potter stumbled out of the room trying to hide their hard-ons.

Parvati declared that, in Draco’s absence, she was directing Thomas to give Finnigan a lap dance.

“You have to at least ask me truth or dare!” Thomas objected.

Greg laughed and refilled his whiskey.

His trunk was full of cookbooks that McGonagall had given him as a gift, somehow knowing that he needed them. She had never really stopped scaring him, even when she was being nice. The cookbooks were all flagged with Spellotape-brand stickers on the recipes he was planning to use.

Greg was fucking relieved to be done with school. Granger and the other swots were probably devastated—what would they do with no more exams? But Greg was feeling good. Highmore had told him he passed his final in History of Magic, and that was good enough for him.

It was strange to be moving on now, though. It had been a year of strangeness and change and he wished that he could just be settled already and done with all the change.

The door opened and the joyful bickering that entered let him know that it was Draco and Harry. They seemed to be arguing over The Matrix, the movie they’d gone to see at the cinema the night before to celebrate Draco’s nineteenth birthday.

“Of course you liked it,” Draco drawled, “it’s about a young guy who is suddenly told he’s The One and has to save the world.”

“Oh shut up, that movie was awesome! He was dodging bullets! The special effects were amazing!”

Draco scoffed. “A sad attempt by Muggles to explain away magic in the universe.”

Greg stood, brushing his still-long hair away from his face.

“Oh my god, not everything in Muggle culture is an attempt to explain the absence of magic,” Harry groaned, poking Draco in the side.

Draco hit him back with an elbow to the ribs. If Greg didn’t say something immediately, they were sure to start snogging. Or worse, try to get up to what they’d been doing when Greg walked in the other night.

“Hey,” he said.

“Are you almost packed?” Draco asked.

“Yeah, I’ve managed to stuff all these cookbooks in here.”

“Do you need an Extension Charm?” Draco offered.

“Nah.”

“So you’re going to stay with your mum for awhile while you figure out plans for the bakery?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “She seems eager to get me home for a bit.”

Harry nodded.

“We’d better get to the train,” Draco said, looking at the clock. “We could Apparate directly where we’re going, but Harry is a sentimental Gryffindor and needs to ride the train one last time.”

“I am not having this argument again,” Harry said, but he was smiling. “We’re not even in a rush!”

Draco and Harry were moving in together. Harry had some old house and they were going to clean it up. Something about a barmy old lady in a portrait; Greg usually tuned them out so he wasn’t sure. Neither of them had any idea what they wanted to do after school. Granger kept sighing about it. But Greg figured he was lucky to have friends who were independently wealthy and indecisive about their careers, because he could ask for their help with his bakery.

“Come on, are you ready?” Draco asked.

“Need a hand?” Harry added.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Greg said, latching his trunk and casting a Locomotor at it.

“Oh! Greg!” Draco said. “I forgot! What are you doing next Tuesday?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, you do now. Harry and I are taking you to a book signing at Waterstones.”

“A book signing?” Greg answered, incredulously. Sure, he was reading better now with Granger’s charm, but that was a step beyond.

“Nigella is signing copies of How To Eat,” Harry enthused.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Greg said.

He smiled as the door to their dorm shut behind him for the last time.