Strange fellows
Strange Fellows
The second mimosa sparkled as it was set on the table beside Hermione’s half-empty flute.
"No, thank you," she said with a smile, gently pushing it back toward the server. "One is plenty. I do have to return to work and not misdiagnose anyone’s placenta because I’m tipsy."
Harry snorted. "That’s a hell of a sentence to hear before noon."
They were tucked into a quiet corner of the café—the familiar one just around the corner from King’s Cross. This was the place Andromeda had loved. The waitress—Florence, he remembered—had worked there forever and had served him each time he and Andromeda had a brunch outing, which was generally whenever Teddy returned to school, even if he hadn’t taken the Hogwarts Express. Florence hadn’t asked why Andromeda wasn’t with them this year but had brought her customary second mimosa without being asked. Her eyes met Harry’s and she smiled a small, sympathetic smile. “It’s on the house,” she shrugged.
Harry picked it up and took a small sip, then grimaced. Too sweet.
Hermione smiled softly. "A mimosa is probably not the one to start with if you are trying to build up a tolerance to froofy alcohol, Harry."
He smiled back. They’d worked on her Brain Drop list—a technique she’d taught him—involving getting every random thought floating around his brain out of the ether and onto paper. Then they had split the strawberry crepes, because neither of them could ever finish a full order. Hermione had a little dot of whipped cream on her cheek. He reached over and wiped it off, and she hummed a distracted, "Thanks," as she picked up the Brain Drop list and frowned at it again.
She sighed and set it down, then gestured to the slice of quiche that she had insisted on due to the description of its “beautiful seasonal vegetables” on the menu. "Aren’t you going to at least try it?"
Harry eyed a suspicious green wedge and poked it with his fork. "What is that?"
"Maybe courgette," Hermione replied without looking up from another bite of crepe.
"Sounds like a curse."
"It’s just a zucchini, Harry."
Harry narrowed his eyes at the offending green flecks in the quiche.
"You know, maybe you should try growing some vegetables next spring. They always tell parents the way to get your kids to eat vegetables is to let them grow them from the start."
Harry continued to prod the quiche. "I’m far too mature to fall for that trickery."
"Mmmhmm," Hermione replied, unconvinced. "How else are we going to get some phytonutrients into you?"
Harry shrugged. "I like arugula. But most veg are either slimy or judgmental."
"Judgmental?"
"Yes. Like kale. Kale knows it’s better than you."
Hermione nearly choked on the mimosa she’d managed to empty by half, laughter muffled into her napkin. When she looked up, her eyes were shining.
"Maybe start with herbs. Mint. Chives. Cherry tomatoes. Something forgiving."
"I’ll put that on the list. ‘Forgiving herbs, no kale.’"
They fell into a comfortable silence for a few bites. Outside, the city felt soft-edged and slow. It was the Friday after a bank holiday, and most of London had emptied out to the coasts or countryside, grasping at the last flickers of summer before school schedules returned.
Harry glanced at Hermione. "So. You lost Theo? How is he doing with everything? Any news?"
She leaned back slightly. "He’s alright. Elira’s second trimester is going smoothly so far. No major magical interference, which is good. Her charts are strong, and she’s responding well to the core stabilization spells Theo designed."
Harry nodded slowly. "And the... combining part? That worked as it should?"
"Yes." Hermione softened. "The spell was stable, and the embryo bonded successfully. Elira’s amazing—strong, grounded. And Theo’s hormonal mapping is some of the best I’ve seen. It’s delicate work, but he’s meticulous. And Draco’s been..."
Harry grinned. "He’s already nesting." His hard, calculating, cold-as-ice partner, Auror Draco Malfoy, had been reduced to a mushy mess of sentimentality with the impending arrival of his son with Theo.
"Of course he is," Hermione shared in the grin. "He brought three different potential crib blueprints to our last appointment. Theo pretended to be annoyed, but he’s keeping all of them in a folder."
Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Did you find other people for the monitoring team besides yourself?"
"Mm-hmm. I’m on medical oversight and magical response. There are so few of us who specialize in magical pregnancies for nontraditional families, especially magical fusion ones. I think we’re making real progress. If we can document this clearly, it could change access across the UK."
Harry nodded, impressed. "You know you’re changing the world, right?"
She shrugged, eyes dipping toward the empty plate between them. "Someone has to."
_______________________
They walked back to St. Mungo’s through streets that felt unusually still. Shop signs fluttered in the light breeze, and a busker played something lilting on the corner. Hermione’s shoes clicked steadily beside his.
Inside, the hospital was quieter than usual—no shouting, no magical overflow trolleys rumbling past. A few medi-wizards milled about, mostly interns or admin. Hermione’s floor was peaceful.
She scanned her badge and led Harry to her office, which smelled faintly of the scent Harry always associated with Hermione’s spaces—old parchment and her favorite "calming" essential oil blend of lavender, patchouli, and sweet orange. He took a deep breath in.
Theo Nott was already sitting in her visitor’s chair, long legs crossed and reading a medical report with the air of someone who could quote it all from memory anyway.
"You figured out where the fuck Theo Nott had gotten to," Hermione said to Harry, mock-surprised.
Harry gave a small bow. "You’re welcome, world."
Theo looked up and grinned. "Potter. Just in time to save me from reorganizing Granger’s case files."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You’d color-code them."
"You’d thank me later."
They all laughed, and Harry dropped onto the low couch along the far wall while Hermione took her seat.
"So," Harry asked, “anything strange showing up in the research world? I don’t know—unexpected wand resonance? Non-standard anthrospectic deviations? Cross-planar hormone echoes? Mutated legacy runes? Alarming dark magic?"
Hermione snorted at his ridiculous questions. Theo shook his head. "Nope. Which is good, but also boring."
"And your little bundle of joy?" Harry queried.
Theo’s voice became soft. "Everything with Elira is tracking exactly to spec. Hormonal levels are ideal, core compatibility is solid, and no sign of magical rejection. If this continues, we’ll have a case study that might rewrite half the current literature."
Hermione added, as though explaining to Harry, "It’s not just about surrogacy. The way the fetus is integrating both magical bloodlines is... elegant."
Theo nodded. "And the Muggle-born genetic anchor definitely improved the magical harmonics."
Harry blinked. "I understood maybe a third of that."
Theo laughed. "Sorry. Basically, this pregnancy is stable in ways that just shouldn't be possible and it's in large part because of the balance Elira brings to the magical lineage. That’s why we chose her."
"You mean it was more than she was tall and blonde?" Harry asked dryly.
Theo laughed again, "Nah, it was that she’s smarter than Draco and me combined." He chuckled and his voice took on a wistful tone. "In actuality, Draco and I didn’t just choose her for her strength or willingness. She just makes sense magically. And our son is just as much hers as ours. It’s pretty remarkable."
Before Harry could ask more, there was a quick knock and the door swung open.
Draco stepped in, dressed in low-key navy robes, hair wind-tousled and looking more relaxed than Harry had seen him in years.
"I’ve come to take my husband away from you miscreants and to lunch," he declared as he arched an eyebrow at Theo, who was already rising to his feet.
"Please," Theo sighed. "My constitution needs a cheeky little midday cocktail to make it through to the weekend."
Draco grinned and glanced around. "Potter. Granger. You two are supposed to be off today, aren’t you?"
"We’re very bad at ‘off,’" Hermione replied, gathering her papers.
"Dinner at Grimmauld, then?" Draco asked, smoothing his sleeve. "You’ll both be there."
Harry raised an eyebrow at the invitation to be present at dinner at his own home. "Oh, was I invited?"
"Indeed. You just were. You’re cooking, aren’t you? What are we having?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Beef medallions. Autumnal salad with arugula. Hold the courgettes," he winked at Hermione.
Hermione rolled her eyes as Theo leaned over to stage-whisper, "We’ll bring dessert. The one from the patisserie near our flat?"
Hermione hummed in anticipation. "Mmmm. Yes. The tarts. Please."
Theo nodded. Dinner was planned.
_______________________________
The late afternoon light angled across the cobbled high street, filtering through the glass windows of the artisan grocer like liquid gold. Harry pushed his basket along the narrow aisles, mentally checking off ingredients for the impromptu dinner menu. He loved cooking—it gave his hands something to do while his brain spun with things he didn’t yet have words for.
He paused at the butcher’s counter, squinting at the beef cuts. Medallions. Right. He loved being able to cook up something Malfoy would expect to be served with a wine pairing and a linen napkin.
As he waited for the butcher to tend to his order, he found himself thinking—again—about Theo and Draco.
Of all the strange twists in his post-war life, becoming close friends with Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott hadn’t even made the list of things he once thought remotely possible. And yet, here they were. Dinner invitations. Shared group texts. Theo sending memes about prenatal hormone levels. Draco babysitting Albus and Lily and insisting they learn proper table etiquette.
It was... odd. But not at all unwelcome.
Harry was happy to tell anyone who asked that Draco was the best partner he ever had. Well, he’d tell everyone but Draco. Draco was too arrogant already. But not without reason. He was incredibly smart, insightful, and able to synthesize patterns and see possibilities that the other Aurors had come to not only admire, but depend on. Ever since he had offered a stammering apology and handshake in the halls of Hogwarts during their awkward and complicated Eighth Year, Harry had been learning that there was much more to Draco Malfoy than an entitled, pure-blood prince. Draco had become far less a foil and far more a fixture. Present. Loyal. Surprisingly warm. Draco was among Harry’s closest friends.
And Theo—he liked Theo. Theo came with Hermione’s highest recommendation as they went through the rigors of Healer training together. The man could come off as dry as toast and twice as brittle, but he could also be funny and sharp and observant. Harry knew he cared deeply—about his friends, about Draco, and especially about the tiny life growing with quiet magic inside Elira’s belly.
And Elira. Oh, was she ever a fun addition to their circle of friends.
They had first met in Ron’s office in the Office of Magical Family Welfare & Safety Compliance five or so years before. Harry was there on other business and Ron was running late, trying to explain the absurdity of levitation charms in toddler-safe zones, while the blonde, willowy Magical Social Support Services witch across from him—Elira—kept interrupting with fire in her eyes.
Harry liked her. She was all elbows and cheekbones and intensity, with quick gestures and even quicker wit. She reminded him of Hermione, if Hermione had been raised in Brixton with three older sisters and even less patience for red tape.
When the meeting finally adjourned, Elira stood and slung her satchel over one shoulder.
“Harry, it was nice to meet you,” she said as she extended her hand to shake his. “Ron, I’ll see you next week. Unless my wife breaks the wards again—she’s hexed our stove three times this month trying to recreate something she saw on a Muggle cooking show."
Ron blinked. "Your wife?"
Elira grinned. "Did I not mention that? My apologies. Basic orientation—Elira Singh, married to one radiant Amaya Santos, general chaos-bringer and breakfast sorceress."
Harry chuckled. "Congratulations on surviving the ward-breach incidents."
"Thanks. We’re keeping the Magical Repairs office in business."
She waved and disappeared down the hallway in a flash of blonde, leaving Ron looking slightly stunned and Harry vaguely amused.
"You alright?" Harry asked, nudging him.
Ron nodded, still staring. "No, I just—how does she do that?"
"Do what?"
Ron shook his head. "Be completely, competently herself."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Ron, you’ve been married to Hermione for a long time. That’s not exactly a rare trait in your life."
"Yeah, but Hermione apologizes for being intimidating. Elira weaponizes it."
Harry chuckled again, but noted the flicker of self-reflection behind Ron’s smile.
__________________________
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry blinked. The butcher was holding up a neat parcel wrapped in parchment.
"Right. Sorry." He took the package and tucked it into his basket, thanking the man.
As he passed the herb section, he stopped beside a crate of mint.
He smiled.
Forgiving herbs.
He grabbed a bunch and moved on.