Disclaimer: I'm making no money off of this, and all characters belong to JK Rowling. The title comes from a Led Zeppelin song of the same name, although besides that there's really no thematic link.

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He doesn't remember exactly how he started coming here. Well, he remembers that it started with Hermione's suggestion that just the three of them go out for old time's sake. Really, he supposes, it offered them an escape from the limelight of their world, a limelight that even Ron sometimes tires of. And then, of course, he'd gotten married, and he'd had to tell Ginny, and since then he'd even seen Kingsley in here once. Hermione had told the Minister of the nice Muggle restaurant with an even nicer bar not too far from the visitor's entrance at the telephone booth, and Harry couldn't blame her. It was a nice feeling to be completely anonymous every once in a while. He appreciated that before the war, and he still appreciates it now.

He's sitting in his favorite chair and enjoying a cup of Earl Grey when he senses someone walking up behind him. He tenses just out of habit (Moody's probably smiling in his grave).

"I thought it was you."

He's surprised to hear the voice, although he hopes his shock is well-concealed when he tilts his head to identify the speaker. The face is boyish, thinner than he remembers, though still chubby, and the eyebrows seem less predisposed to a glare and more to a laugh. The hair is combed flat and straight on the sides (Vernon's influence), but it's a bit messy on top, quite like his own (he can already hear Petunia's nasal jabbering in his ear). More than anything, the face is as familiar as the voice.

"Big D," he says, and his attempt at nonchalance is ruined by a crack in his voice. Good thing Ron's not here. "It's been a while."

"You're telling me." Dudley sits without asking. Clearly some parts of his upbringing will never be weeded out of him. "How've you been, Harry?"

"Fine." Harry rotates his cup so the handle runs parallel with the edge of the counter, and for some reason it makes him feel at east. He decides he's spent too much time with Hermione lately. "Married."

"I know," Dudley replies. "Not that I got an invitation."

Harry adjusts the napkin too. Might as well make everything symmetrical. "It was a low-key thing. We had it in her back garden."

"I guessed from the tone of the letter." The larger man waves his hand at the bartender, who holds up one finger and gestured to another customer. "Three kids, huh?"

"Yes."

"Poor bastard."

Harry has to look over to tell if he's joking. Thankfully the right corner of his mouth is hitched up in a one-sided smile. "And I bet you're happily single."

"Actually, not any more. Just got engaged two days ago."

"Oh. Congratulations."

"Thanks. She's great, you'd love her." Dudley lowers his voice and watches as the bartender walks toward them. "Don't worry, though. I haven't told her about you-know-what."

"Oh," Harry says for the second time in as many breaths. "Thanks, I guess. Honestly it hadn't even crossed my mind."

The bartander's standing in front of them now. "You want something?"

"Water. Big one, too," responds Dudley, indicating the desired size with his hands. The bartender doesn't look too happy with the choice, but Dudley doesn't look like he cares.

"So," Harry tries, but then he realizes how hard this whole "making polite conversation" thing is. "Where're you working?"

"Smeltings."

"Vernon must be ecstatic."

"Yeah, but he's still disappointed I didn't join him at Grunnings. He keeps telling us he's going to retire, but I don't think he'd know to do with himself if he did."

Harry imagines Vernon lounging about the house or perhaps tending to the garden as Petunia always did. Something about the image is endlessly humorous. "Yeah, I think I know what you mean. What do you do at Smeltings?"

"Boxing coach and third form history. It's brilliant. In the morning I teach kids about war and executions and in the afternoons I teach them how to beat each other into a bloody pulp."

"Vernon really must be ecstatic.'

Dudley snickers. "I don't think he'd be as happy if I was teaching maths and heading up the drama club. Not that he can say anything, though. He and Mum have picked up bridge, for God's sake."

"Bridge?" Harry lets out a snort. "Are they any good?"

"No, they're pretty terrible. Mum's friends think he's a lost cause."

Harry finds that he's actually curious. "Are they still at Privet Drive?"

"Of course," says Dudley. "There was a deal in place for another house last year, but it fell through. I don't think Mum was ready to leave either way."

It's strange to hear that, but Harry supposes he's the only one in the family with such an aversion to the house. To him it was a prison, but to Petunia it's the home where she raised her son.

"And what about you?" Dudley asks as he raises his glass to his lips. It hovers an inch from his lips as he continues. "Are you working? Do you even have to work?"

"Uh, I guess not technically, no."

Dudley nods, the glass now just half an inch away. "Kind of goes with saving the world and all, doesn't it?"

"No. I mean, I wouldn't know. My parents left me a nice amount of money though." He shrugs. "I still work. I think I'd go crazy if I didn't get out of the house. Probably would just stare at the wall all day."

At last his cousin takes a sip of his water and sets it down. "What do you do?"

"I'm an Auror."

"Ah."

"I'm a Dark Wizard catcher."

"Oh." Dudley chews on a piece of ice. "But I thought you defeated… what's-his-name… Voltaire or Voltulord or whatever."

"Voldemort." Harry's half-expecting someone around him to wince, but then he remembers that he's surrounded by wonderfully ignorant Muggles. "He's gone, but there are still others. Just because there's no war going on doesn't mean we shouldn't have an army. History –"

"Tends to repeat itself. Yeah, I know. History teacher and all." A table of men gives a collective cheer as a striker scores in the televised football game. "Stupid question. I just keep forgetting that… I always think that your world is completely different. I forget that some things are pretty universal."

"Yeah."

In the corner another table begins singing Happy Birthday to a very flushed teenage girl. Dudley hums the tune to himself and takes a mobile phone out of his pocket.

"Phone," he explains. "Everything's smaller now."

"I know," says Harry. "I'm not completely out of the loop."

"Right. Sorry." Dudley slips the phone back into his jacket. "But still, it's been a long time. Haven't seen you for what, ten years?"

"About.' Harry remembers by date the last time he had seen any of the Dursleys (2nd of August, 1998). After the war he'd been there when they'd moved back into their house after a year on the run, albeit only at Molly's insistence. She didn't seem to completely understand his familial relationships.

"Can't believe it's been that long," Dudley sighs.

Harry shrugs again. "There've been letters."

"One or two. Can't really blame you, though. I can understand where you're coming from. You're a new man now in a new world. Returning to Privet Drive would just make you feel powerless again."

Harry quite nearly spits out his tea. He stares at Dudley, flabbergasted, until his counterpart lets loose a bark of a laugh.

"I pulled that out of nowhere. Total bullshit." His laughter subsides, his face settling into an easy grin that reaches to his eyes. "Elinor's got a degree in psychology. She rattles off stuff like that all the time."

"Oh – oh." Harry returns the smile. "Good. For a second I thought you were an imposter."

Dudley chortles. "And in your world I bet there's all sorts of tricks like that. I can see why you're an Auron or Auror or whatever it's called." His expression changes abruptly and he begins to stir his water with a toothpick. "She'd love to have you over for dinner. My fiancé."

Harry can't find a response.

"You could bring your wife. Hell, you could bring your kids. Ellie's a primary school guidance counselor. She'll have loads of fun doing her psychoanalysis on them."

"I'll talk to Ginny about it." Harry busies himself with checking his watch. "I've overstayed my lunch break. I should probably go."

"I see," Dudley replies, no longer grinning. "How should I contact you?"

"I'll write to you. Don't worry about it."

"Right. Okay."

Harry looks to Dudley and then the door and then Dudley once more. There's something about him – perhaps the monumental change in demeanor, the complete disconnection from the fifteen-year-old bullying truant he'd once known – that makes Harry's longstanding anger crumble.

"There's an out of service telephone booth a few blocks north," he finds himself saying. "Enter it, dial 6-2-4-4-2, and ask for Harry Potter. Tell them you're my cousin."

"All right." Dudley smiles. "I'll do that, then. It's been nice to see you again, Harry."

"Same here, Big D."

Harry nods once, and Dudley nods back. He doesn't waste any time; in a moment he's turned, and in another he's at the door. As he steps outside, he nearly bumps into a throng of pedestrians, although he barely notices. He's not sure how he should be feeling right now, yet a faint sense of optimism is slowly taking control of him. Despite his mixed emotions, he smirks to himself. He's going to have a very interesting conversation with Ginny when he gets home.

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