Chapter Text
Harry wiped his hand on the wash cloth. He took both their plates from where they lay on the kitchen island and walked into the dining room. Malfoy waited there, fingers steepled where he sat to the left of the chair at the head of the table. Harry set the plates down, moving to sit beside the blond, avoiding the obvious position.
Malfoy sent an unreadable look at him before he turned to his plate. Whether he found the food satisfactory or not, Harry couldn’t make out. Malfoy took up the fork and knife beside the plate and speared the omelette. His perfect posture suited the formal atmosphere of the room while Harry only just managed to adjust to sitting in the chair to eat.
This may be the first time I am actually using the dining room after all the Order meetings.
He shook away the thought.
He was far more used to eating while on the run to leave the house hurriedly. Or eating at the office, buried in some file or the other. Then there were the bar nights. Or dinners at the Burrow.
He ate a bite of his toast. His eyes moved to rest on Malfoy, noting how the blond carefully cut the omelette with a knife and fork. His fingers trembled as they moved. Harry looked away. Purebloods probably had it ingrained from birth, perfect etiquette and posture. He could easily imagine a younger boy listening patiently to lessons on which fork to use and when.
Or impatiently maybe in Malfoy’s case, Harry amended. A blond with caustic comments and constant opinions on everything was far more suited to the boy he’d known in his childhood.
In a bid to break the silence between them, he opened his mouth to speak and paused as nothing came to mind. He closed his mouth. He searched for a topic, any topic. Fork and knife clinked against the plate as Malfoy scooped up another bite. Harry ate a bite of his toast.
“How’s the food?” He asked, cringing internally. Plain old toast and omelette was hardly worth any compliments.
Malfoy paused mid bite. “It is…comfort food, I suppose.” He said, considering his words carefully. “Perfect for recovery.” He resumed eating.
“Would you like something to drink?” Harry should have asked that before they sat to eat, he berated himself.
Malfoy didn’t pause this time. “That would be nice.”
“Anything in particular?” Harry stood up, chair dragging on the wooden floor.
“I’d appreciate a cup of tea.” Malfoy said after a beat.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Harry walked into the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.
His fingers drifted to scratch his scar unconsciously as he waited for the water to boil. He hung his head, hand moving to massage his neck. The shrill hiss of the kettle sounded and he let the tea leaves steep, pouring the water into the waiting mugs. He took the sugar and milk along, feeling like a waiter as he made his way back to the table.
Malfoy set down his fork and knife and neatly dabbed at the edges of his lips with the napkin beside him. Harry handed him one of the mugs. He accepted it, wrapping thin fingers around the handle.
“Milk and sugar.” He announced, setting the tray down between them as he sat down again. He finished the rest of the toast while Malfoy sipped the tea delicately. He added neither sugar nor milk, Harry noted. A preference they both shared.
“Do you cook often? Or is it only for those emergency meals?” Malfoy asked. Harry chewed the mouthful of omelette quickly, swallowing in a hurry to reply. He choked in his haste and Malfoy watched in mild alarm as he sputtered.
Without thinking, Harry reached for his mug and gulped a mouthful of hot tea, promptly spitting it out as it scalded his tongue. He hissed curses as the heat burned his throat and chest. Looking down he realised he’d managed to spill a little on his shirt. So much for etiquette.
The second shirt of the day ruined. He mopped up the moisture before it spread with the napkin Malfoy handed him.
He glanced at the Slytherin, expecting a smirk with a sharp retort on the way as he folded the napkin, placing it on the table. Instead, he found Malfoy looking at him with a strange mix of alarm and amusement, hand poised close to him still. Malfoy opened his mouth but Harry cut him off.
“I’m fine,” Harry managed, voice hoarse.
Trying to salvage what little respect he had retained, he didn’t answer Malfoy’s question, turning back to face his food. His face burned along with his throat. He winced as he chewed and ate the omelette. He reached for the tea again, sipping it more carefully this time.
“Will I get an answer anytime soon?” It was the lightness in his tone that startled Harry into looking back up. A hesitant smile graced Malfoy’s pointed features.
Harry let out a shaky breath. He debated on whether to answer truthfully.
“I do. Not elaborate four course meals but enough for myself.” He answered. No matter what he’d told Malfoy, he’d not really cooked for himself or anyone else for quite a while. Takeout boxes filled his trash can at the office. He still remembered how to cook though, muscle memory moving his hands across the stove and pans.
Those meals he’d made and kept in the kitchen weren’t exactly made last week. But Harry had found that stasis charms preserved food perfectly for months at a time. Malfoy certainly didn’t need to know that the last time he’d cooked in earnest had been for a date night with Ginny last year. The food had been conveniently forgotten then.
“What about you?” Harry asked, curiosity prompting him to continue the conversation. Malfoy avoided his eyes. “I had to learn out of necessity.” he said quietly. Harry avoided addressing the subtext that lingered beneath the words.
“That makes it sound like you can just about survive your cooking.”
Malfoy let out a laugh, a high sound. “That may be right.” He allowed, his tone almost sheepish, like he was admitting a grave secret. “Can we stop injuring my pride with regard to my skills in the kitchen further now?”
“Sure Malfoy. Remind me never to allow you anywhere close to the stove though. The house might just manage to burn down with you cooking"
Malfoy winced, pain seeping into his expression. A flash of hurt passed across his features before they shuttered. The silence returned in full force, straining with words unspoken. The living room clock chimed, its tinkling sound muffled between the walls.
Harry retraced the conversation and the words he’d spoken, searching for the reason the Slytherin had broken off from their conversation.
“Sorry. I-” Malfoy interrupted his apology. “You don’t have to do this Potter.” He set his empty mug on the table. He shut his eyes, his back straightening a little as if he was strengthening himself.
"I have to.” Harry finished, a little more force behind his words. “I didn’t mean to.” How many times would he repeat those words, he wondered as his fingers traced the edge of his empty plate. He really should have learned better than to do things so thoughtlessly still. Awfully Gryffindor of him he knew, jumping headlong into situations without a second thought.
“I know.” The words were tired. “It doesn’t matter. You don't have to censor yourself for my sake."
Harry stood up, the need to leave pulsing through him. He collected the plates and the used cutlery. Malfoy’s voice stopped him as he moved away to leave the room.
“For what it’s worth, I have no intention of burning down your house.”
Harry smiled in spite of himself. “Sure Malfoy. I believe you.” He let a tinge of sarcasm colour his response.
“Wait here. I’ll be back with your potions.”