24. Remember how you made me crazy? [Monday, January 3rd 2005]
Potter was gone when Draco woke up the next morning with a horrible crick in his neck. The shower was running, so he went downstairs and made porridge.
Potter joined him a few minutes later, dropping down on the barstool and smelling exactly like Draco did since the first time he had showered here – like soap and peppermint-scented shampoo.
Draco could handle this. Who cared that they smelled like they belonged together? Not Draco. Draco was fully concentrating on the way Potter had managed to hit the barstool on his first try.
Draco really had to give it to him – he was adjusting to his condition with impressive speed. So far, he'd only walked into doorframes three or four times and just once had he smacked himself in the face in an attempt at messing up his hair. Maybe that would teach him to leave it alone.
"Porridge again? Don't strain yourself, Malfoy," Potter said, looking into his bowl unenthusiastically.
"Want me to take you back to St. Mungo's?" Draco offered, smiling at him sweetly. "Mondays it's mashed potatoes."
"Every day at Mungo's is mashed potato day," Harry muttered. "You'll have to go one better."
"Well, you could ask Sanders to do some physical exercises with you after breakfast. You still owe her some. Be sure to bring something to throw at her face, though, or she won't recognise you."
"Did I really ask you to live with me for a whole week?" Potter grumbled, picking at his porridge. "Doesn't sound like something I would do."
"Oh yes, you could hardly wait," Draco confirmed, starting on his own bowl. "You even turned down several invitations in favour of this. You must really enjoy my company."
"Must have been the potion speaking," Potter said. Then he added, more enthusiastically, "Hey, how about pancakes?"
"Sure, just don't expect me to make them."
"Anybody can make pancakes!"
"Well, not me. I hate cooking. It takes forever and then, when you're just about to go into a food coma, you have to do all the cleaning. Just not worth it."
"Fine, I'll do it," Potter said, pushing his bowl away. "Where's my wand?"
Draco laughed in his face. "There's no way I'll give that back to you already."
Potter jumped to his feet at once. "Malfoy, come on. I'm completely fine!"
"You are fine when Patil says you're fine," Draco objected. "And that means no magic for a whole week."
Potter strode around the kitchen island determinedly. Draco put down his bowl, half-expecting Potter to attack him, but he just stopped right next to him.
"See? Fit as a fiddle. No disorientation at all," he declared, jumping on the spot for emphasis.
"Good for you," Draco said, glancing at him sideways. "Still a no."
"Why?"
He grabbed Draco's arm and turned his barstool around to face him, using so much force that Draco was almost thrown off. He had to grab both of Potter's arms to stabilise.
"Because some of the potion might still be lingering in your bloodstream. Which is why you still can't read, by the way, so maybe you should not question this fact."
"How about fifty galleons?" Potter offered suddenly, looking up at him slyly.
And why was he standing so close? Draco could practically feel Potter's breath ebbing against his throat. Not helpful.
"Are you trying to bribe me?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.
Potter's legs were pressed against Draco's knees, which, frankly, was very distracting. Almost as distracting as Potter biting his lower lip, looking up at him with his stupidly vivid green eyes.
"Is it working?" Potter asked softly, putting his second hand on Draco's other shoulder.
And was he coming nearer? Was he doing this on purpose? That bastard knew he was Draco's type and now he was exploiting it shamelessly. 'Confounded,' supplied a little voice at the back of Draco's head. Right.
"I swore an oath, Potter. I'm not going to break that for some gold," Draco replied, swallowing hard. He found it very difficult to stop his eyes from drifting down to Potter's lips.
"Anything else you would break it for?"
One of Potter's hands twitched and Draco had the sudden suspicion that he was restraining himself from ruffling his hair. Instead, both hands slid from Draco's shoulders and down the length of his arms, leaving them ice-cold and burning at the same time, before they came to rest around Draco's wrists.
And then it dawned on Draco.
That bastard was the most Slytherin Gryffindor he had ever laid eyes on! God, that thought should not turn him on even more than he already was. Pull it together, Draco!
"I don't have your wand on me, you tosser," he said coldly, withdrawing his hands and shoving Potter away with a push against his chest. "So, you can stop patting me down."
Potter did ruffle his hair now. He was just about to say something when the window flew open and, not a second later, a newspaper narrowly missed Draco's head, crash-landing on the kitchen island. Potter immediately lifted it up, unearthing his ridiculously tiny owl.
"How many times do I have to tell them not to send you with the heavy things?" Potter said angrily, stroking the miniature owl so all its feathers were smooth again. Pig hooted softly and took some of the porridge Draco offered.
"Of all the owls to choose from, why did you have to take the tiniest one available?" Draco asked curiously.
"Well, unlike some people," Potter shot him a sidelong glance, "I don't have anything to compensate."
"I don't even have an owl," said Draco, but Harry just ignored him.
He was looking down at the Daily Prophet he was still holding and his features hardened.
The whole front page consisted of various photographs of Potter, mostly taken during Quidditch games and all of them showing him getting injured. The largest one was a loop of Dayal and Draco Disapparating with Potter. Draco took the newspaper from him and dropped it into the rubbish bin unceremoniously.
"Just stop reading that trash," he advised, sitting back down on his barstool. "You can't make them stop writing about you, but you can pretend they have."
"Everybody reads that!" Potter protested. "They don't pretend those articles don't exist!"
"Fuck everybody," Draco said. "You don't have to care about everybody. The people that really matter won't take these things seriously anyway and the rest can piss right off."
"You don't know what it's like," Potter grumbled, stroking Pig's feathers.
"Don't I?" Draco asked in disbelief. "You are such a self-absorbed prick, Potter. What do you think the Prophet did when the Wizengamot acquitted me? Completely ignore it? Sing my praise? Think they congratulated me when Meadows agreed to take me on?"
"They wrote about you working at St. Mungo's?"
"Oh, they were sure that I Imperiused Meadows. My evil plan was to infiltrate St. Mungo's and poison Muggle-borns."
Potter looked at him dumbfounded, still stroking Pig absentmindedly. "I'm –" he began, but Draco interrupted him, holding up a hand.
"I don't need your pity. I worked my arse off to get to where I am now and I won't let anybody ruin that. Especially not some bloodthirsty reporter with a vendetta. And neither should you."
Potter looked at him thoughtfully, biting his lip again. Something like resolution showed on his face and then he pushed away from the kitchen island and went into the pantry, only slightly bumping his shoulder against the door. He reappeared with various ingredients, which he arranged in a neat row on the kitchen island.
"I'll show you how to make pancakes," he said, taking out two large metal bowls and two whisks.
Potter refused to divide the tasks between the two of them, insisting that they make two batters, so Draco could 'memorise every single step'. Potter did everything the Muggle way and then told Draco which spell to use.
When they had produced two almost identical mixtures (Potter's somehow fluffier than his), Potter put two pans on the stove, which Draco turned on with his wand.
"Alright, now pour some of the batter into the pan, like this," Potter instructed, demonstrating on his own pan. Draco imitated him, earning an approving nod from Potter.
Things took a turn when the time came to flip their pancakes. Potter managed to do it without the spatula, tossing his pancake into the air with a flick of his wrist and catching it again. Draco pointed his wand at his own pan, trying to imitate the move Potter had done. The pan jerked violently and his pancake hit the ceiling and then landed on the steel counter with a splash.
"You know, rumour has it you can't cook," Potter said bluntly.
"That so?" asked Draco, vanishing his culinary mishap. Some of the batter was still dripping from the ceiling and he vanished that too.
"Uh-uh," said Potter, the corner of his mouth twitching.
And then they were laughing. The sound of both their voices was filling the room and Draco was hit with the realisation that this was the first time they were both laughing about the same thing. Until now they had usually laughed at the expense of one another. He decided, then and there, that he really liked how their laughter blended together.
Potter poured some more batter into Draco's pan and then got behind him. Draco tensed up as Potter put his right hand on Draco's from behind, back and chest pressed against each other.
"It's a rather delicate motion," Potter said quietly.
And Draco was sure that Potter must be able to feel his hand shaking, or the blood pounding through his whole body with every heartbeat. He could hardly concentrate on the wand movement Potter was guiding him through. And he most certainly was not focussing on his pancake.
Merlin, Draco was completely out of his depth with Potter ever since he had realised he felt something for him. It felt like being tossed into the raging sea, never sure when the next wave would hit and from which side. All he could do was stay afloat somehow.
"This isn't a ploy to steal my wand, is it, Potter?" Draco said quietly, desperate for anything to say, struggling to keep his head above water.
He did not really think that was what was going on, but now that he had said it, he caught himself wondering who would win in a scuffle. Somehow, he doubted it would be him. Draco was taller, sure, but Potter was definitely in better shape. He did nothing but train every day and probably ate a lot of vegetables. Draco only ever worked way too many hours, but never out, and then ate complete garbage without a single vitamin to be found anywhere near it.
"Do you think me capable of something like that?" Potter said in his ear. "Just taking something from you as important as your wand?"
"Wouldn't be the first time," Draco said, only half-accusingly. He knew Potter did not have a choice back then. He didn't want to think about what would have been if Draco had held on to it a little bit tighter.
"All is fair in love and war," Potter said silently, tightening his grip on Draco's hand, as if to make sure he could not just pull it away.
"The war is over," Draco said hoarsely, his heart hammering against his rib cage. He felt Potter seize up behind him, and then he let go.
"'Course it is," Potter said in a husky voice, stepping away from him. "Let's finish up, I'm starving."
But when they were finally finished with their pancakes, Potter barely ate any, cutting them into increasingly smaller pieces instead.
