A/N: This is the first part of the first fic I've written in a long time. Dedicated to Nadine, my inspiration!
The very first time Draco Malfoy ever made pie, he thought it would be as simple as making a potion. Harry watched from the doorway of the kitchen of their flat, smiling indulgently as Draco scurried to and from the pantry, muttering to himself and laying out ingredients neatly on the counter nearest the oven.
"Snape would be proud of how orderly this all is," Harry said.
"Right, I'm sure, " Draco snapped. " 'Oh Draco, I so hoped you would use your consummate prowess for potions to grow up to be Potter's housewife.' He's rolling in his grave, I tell you."
"Well, you sure are fit for a housewife," Harry said, smacking Draco lightly on the bum.
"Keep that up and there will be no dinner for you tonight," Draco said.
"Is that what you're making? Dinner?" Harry asked, peering around Draco at the scroll floating in midair above the sink. Draco reached out and snatched it away, stuffing it into the pocket of his trousers.
"None of your business. Off with you!" Draco said, shooing Harry out the door. "You're going to be late. I need peace. Out of my kitchen!"
"Your kitchen now, is it? Does that mean I don't have to clean it ever again?"
"Out!" Draco stuck his tongue out as Harry tossed a handful of powder into the hearth and stepped into the Floo. As soon as Harry was out of sight, presumably ensconced in his office in the Auror department at the Ministry for the next eight hours, Draco released the slightly crumpled scroll from his pocket and set it to floating again. He peered at the directions and then dug into the pantry in the corner and pulled out what looked like a slightly moldy loaf of rye bread – Harry's least favorite. He pulled out his wand and waved it at the bread, removing the Glamour that he'd placed on it the day before, and revealed a mid-sized, bright orange pumpkin.
Draco carried the pumpkin back to the scroll and set it down. "How in the bloody hell does this thing work?" he murmured, looking down at the pumpkin. He'd seen pumpkins, obviously, and he'd had pumpkin juice and Pumpkin Pasties and plenty of other pumpkin treats, but he had never really imagined how one took the giant pumpkins in the Great Hall around Halloween and turned them into juice, or pasties, or, as was necessary today, pie.
Harry really liked pumpkin pie. Draco had never even tasted pumpkin pie until he and Harry had begun this whatever-it-was that they were to each other, and though he found that he still preferred a slice of German Chocolate Cake or perfectly-carmelized Crème Brule, Draco could understand why Harry liked pumpkin pie. What he could not understand was the first step in the recipe that Molly Weasley had so kindly owled him the day before.
"Step one," the recipe read out in Mrs. Weasley's voice as Draco prodded it. "Using your wand, carve the pumpkin around the stem, leaving enough room to reach in and remove the pumpkin innards."
"The pumpkin what?" Draco demanded of the recipe. The recipe merely hung there in mid-air a bit tauntingly, waiting for him to perform surgery on the pumpkin on his cutting board. Draco swallowed hard and began to carve.
Harry stepped out of the Floo at his flat that night and into pitch blackness. He pulled out his wand and called out, his voice a bit strangled, "Draco? Draco, are you here?"
"In the kitchen," Draco's replied, his voice full of despair.
"What's going on? Are you all right? What is this?" Harry kept his wand out. The room felt hot, and stuffy, and full of the scent of something sickly sweet mixed with something burnt.
"Oh I'm fine, just battling a fire I can't even see because of this bloody Peruvian Darkness Powder – "
"A fire?" Harry gasped, putting his hands out to find the wall. "What're you talking about? This is Darkness Powder? Atrumeradico!" The living room and kitchen suddenly filled with light. Harry bolted for the kitchen and felt his jaw drop.
Draco was cowering in the corner of the kitchen furthest from the oven, where a large pan was burning with hot, red-white flames. He, along with half of the kitchen, was covered with something sticky and orange. Draco's hair was standing on end as if he'd run his hands through it several times, and one of his sleeves looked singed.
"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Harry asked, half horrified and half amused.
Draco didn't answer. He shot a few angry aguamenti spells at the oven, which soon subdued the flames, leaving only choking smoke filling the kitchen. Harry opened the window above the sink to let out the smoke and then leaned against the counter, crossing his arms while Draco inspected the oven hesitantly.
"Draco," he said patiently, biting the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh. "Are you… baking?"
"I was baking," Draco snarled. "And doing a bang-up job of it, too, until I realized I'd forgotten the cinnamon after it was already in the oven, so I grabbed it and just tossed it in. Which would have been fine, if someonehadn't left that bloody Weasley product in the pantry!" By this point in the tirade, Draco's voice had gone a bit squeaky. Harry would have found it adorable if the Slytherin's eyes hadn't been blazing. "What bloody tosser would leave DarknessPowder in a bloody pantry where anybody could mistake it for cinnamon?"
"That would be me, I suppose," Harry said, verging on irritation that Draco had somehow managed to blow up their kitchen – for, on closer inspection, at least the oven and much of the counter space were probably a total loss – and yet still blame it on Harry.
"Turns out Peruvian Instant Darkness doesn't mix particularly well with – nevermind," Draco said. "I'll just clean up then, shall I?" He began to shoot jets of water at various messy spots in the kitchen and set scrubbing spells on the inside of the oven.
Harry watched warily from the doorway as Draco stomped around. He took a step forward and felt something squish under his foot. He peered at the floor.
"Draco, what is this?" he asked, puzzled. "What were you – " He stopped, looking at the frustration on Draco's face – frustration mixed with a smudge of flour. Harry stepped forward and reached up to Draco's hair and pulled out a pumpkin seed.
"Were you baking a pumpkin pie?" he asked.
"I was," Draco muttered. "Not anymore, I'm not."
"For me?"
"No, Potter, for the house elves – oh wait, we haven't got any to clean this bloody mess, have we – "
But Harry cut him off with an enthusiastic kiss. It was just the kind of kiss Draco had hoped to receive after presenting Harry with a delicious and well-made pumpkin pie, not after needing Harry to rescue him from his own kitchen. But as Harry grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall and towards the bedroom, Draco decided that perhaps the night would still be worth one burnt – well, slightly more than burnt – pumpkin pie.