Almost as though Potter could tell Draco had been thinking about him, he appears in the doorway not five minutes later.

"I'm about to make dinner," Potter says. Draco turns to look at him. He's leaning against the doorframe, backlit by the hall light. "Did you want any?"

"Yes please," Draco says. "Are you really going to make it?"

"Yes."

"And you can do that? Without magic?"

"Yes." Potter frowns. "Can't you?" Draco doesn't say anything, just examines his nails in a disinterested fashion, even as his mouth presses into a thin line. Potter snorts in amusement. "Spoiled rich kid." Draco bristles but lets the insult slide. "I suppose it's for the best that you're staying here then."

"I could feed myself without magic," Draco snaps. "I could eat..." He flounders for a moment as he tries to come up with something he could eat that doesn't need cooking and that sounds less flouncy than strawberries and cream which had been his first reaction. "I could eat carrots."

"Carrots?" Draco feels the warmth of his blush creep into his cheeks, and he does his best to keep his face neutral in spite of this.

"It was the first raw vegetable I could think of that I didn't loathe." Potter looks very much like he's trying not to laugh, which is somehow worse than him actually laughing. It feels a lot like pity, and Draco doesn't like it.

"How d'you feel about spag bol?" Potter asks, thankfully changing the subject.

"Spag what now?"

"Spaghetti bolognese."

"It's delicious, and should never be abbreviated in such a plebeian manner," Draco sniffs. At this, Potter actually does snort in laughter. Draco's oddly proud of himself for it, even as he gives Potter a withering look.

"Great." Potter pushes off of the doorframe and starts down the corridor. Draco watches him leave, unsure if he should follow or not. He walks to the door.

"Potter," Draco calls right as the man reaches the stairs. "You mentioned casual clothes?" He tries his best to sound like he could do without them, which in a pinch he could, but a note of desperation slips into his voice.

"Right," Potter says. "Back in a mo'." He walks over to his bedroom. Draco stays in the doorway to his, not wanting to invade the other man's space. It's awkward enough having to borrow clothes without hovering around while he picks them out.

While he waits, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his text messages. There's nothing new there, not with Pansy in Argentina. Which — now that he thinks about it — how is he supposed to get a hold of Pansy if she's (presumably) stuck there? Is their business just going to grind to a halt while this virus keeps everyone inside?

His thoughts are interrupted by Potter coming back out of his room. He's carrying a disturbing amount of red. Because of course he is, the Gryffindor bastard.

"Here you go," he says cheerfully as he draws level with Draco. Draco fixes his favorite 'fuck you' smile on his face.

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Right then, I'll be in the kitchen if you need me," Potter says. Then he turns away and bounds down the stairs, leaving Draco to holding more red clothing than he's held in a while. Draco scowls after him, but turns and walks into his room to see what he's been given all the same.

The pile is comprised of: Gryffindor tracksuit bottoms, a Gryffindor quidditch warm up shirt (replete with a yellow Potter stitched on the back), some red, flannel pajamas with little, golden roaring lions stitched into them, and a crimson jumper with a golden H on the front that is very obviously homemade. Draco sighs and shrugs out of his jacket.

He walks over to the closet where he hangs it up, followed shortly after by his waistcoat. He looks around for a place to put his car keys and coin purse, and decides to place them on top of a chest of drawers. He tugs his trousers off and adds them to the same hanger as the suit jacket, and then pulls on the tracksuit bottoms. And Draco will be damned, but they are comfortable. He refuses to wear any of the rest of the red, though, and just undoes the top two buttons on his collared shirt before making his way down the stairs to join Potter in the kitchen.

…

Watching Potter cook is a revelation. Draco's been in potions classes with the man, and he doesn't remember Potter's knife skills being nearly this good. Draco had offered to help chop, but Potter had waved him off, and now as Draco watches, Potter deftly dices an onion, some celery and several carrots all in quick succession.

"What are those for?" Draco asks, pointing at the tricolored cubes.

"The mirepoix?"

"Yes."

"They're for the sauce. They add flavor." Clearly Draco has a lot to learn. Not that he's planning on learning. If Potter's going to be cooking, what's the point in him doing it? Draco's been known to burn pasta when left to his own devices, and Shreeky has chased him from the kitchen with a rolling pin more times than Draco cares to count.

Potter pours olive oil into a large pot, and places it on the stove. He waits for a moment for the pot to heat up before he adds what he explains is a mixture of ground beef and pork. Draco nods like he knew those were ingredients he would use. There is silence save for the sizzling of the meat. Draco pushes himself up from the table and comes over to peer into the pot.

"What are you doing?" Potter asks.

"Observing."

"Well, right now I'm browning the meat."

"Why?"

"So it will taste good? Merlin, Malfoy. I thought you were good at potions."

"This isn't potions," Draco points out. "It's not magic."

"No," Potter says. "It's science." The corner of Potter's mouth lifts in a small smirk.

"That must be why I'm so terrible at it," Draco announces. He goes back to the seat he was in on the other side of the table and sits down again.

"You're terrible at it?" Potter asks and so Draco relates the story of the burnt pasta, and he's somehow pleased when Potter laughs, rather than embarrassed the way he thought he would be. Perhaps it's the way that Potter's looking at him like he might look at a friend.

"Well," Potter says after a long moment. "Have you ever tried learning?"

"Define tried." This earns Draco another smirk. Potter spoons the meat, now browned, back out of the pot, and transfers it to a plate. Then he adds the mirepoix to the pot where the meat was. The vegetables sizzle as they meet the hot oil.

"The house elves won't let me learn," Draco says once Potter's attention is back on him. "Not after the tiny fire I started with the pasta."

"Can't quite say I blame them," Potter says, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Draco scrunches his nose up and makes an impudent face.

"You don't have a house elf?" Draco asks, looking around the kitchen.

"Um," Potter says. He stares down at the vegetables in the pot for a long moment before looking up. "I did, but—"

"—I get it," Draco says. "It's so hard to find good help these days." He flashes Potter a smirk, only to get a glare in return.

"But he died, Malfoy," Potter spits, all good humor gone again.

"Oh." Draco feels stupid. He'd forgotten that despite the easy banter, this is Potter he's talking to, not Pansy or Theo. Potter who freed his family's house elf after second year. Potter who was then saved by said house elf when he'd been captured and shoved into the Manor's cellar…

Quite suddenly, Draco can't breathe. He needs to get out of this room, to get out of this house. He can't stay here with Potter. They have too much history. He stands up abruptly and walks towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Dunno. Out."

"You can't."

"Staying near you is what I can't do." And with that, Draco starts to walk up the stairs.

"Really though, don't run off," Potter calls behind him.

"Oh fuck off."

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour." But Draco's already halfway up the stairs now and doesn't respond.

…

Dinner is, Draco is almost annoyed to say, delicious.

After he'd left the kitchen earlier, Draco had gone off to sulk in the library. He'd stayed there for a good twenty minutes, sprawled on one of the tufted, leather couches, as though he were a victorian lady going through a fit of the vapors. Had he been needlessly dramatic? Possibly, but two weeks with Potter seemed to call for the dramatics (even if he'd brought it on himself by asking to stay).

Curiosity had gotten the better of him after a while and he'd perused the library, noting the many books that hinted at containing very dark magic indeed, and wondering if Potter knew what horrors his library contained. But then, Potter had been brought up by muggles, so how would he know that "Stadler's Syllabary", "Unspooling Rituals", or "Dreams of Force" contained the blood magic that they did?

He'd avoided those books, focussing instead on some of the fiction books that were arranged along one wall. After some perusal, he'd settled on a muggle book that Draco's decently sure Potter had added to the library, given its recent publication date. It was interesting, he'd thought, seeing what muggles thought magic might be like.

He'd also taken the opportunity to dash outside to his car in order to get his phone charger. He's not sure where to plug it in, but the fact that Potter also has a mobile indicates there must be some outlets somewhere in the house.

But now he's sitting opposite Potter in the kitchen, wearing Potter's comfortable tracksuit bottoms, eating possibly the best spaghetti bolognese he's ever had, and wondering why he'd wanted to leave. As he eats, he tries to figure out the best way to get Potter to teach him how to make the sauce. Because now that he's tried it, he needs it in his life. Forever.

"This is fantastic," Draco says, figuring he'll start the conversation there. Potter looks up at him. He's just shoved a forkful of spaghetti in his face and one long noodle hangs out of his mouth. He slurps it in, not caring that he splatters sauce all over his face. It takes some effort for Draco not to flinch at that. But then, Potter's wearing his napkin like a child's bib, so it doesn't get on his clothes, only on his chin.

"You like it?" Potter asks once he's chewed and swallowed his bite.

"It's the best I've ever had." Potter lifts an eyebrow at this, and damn it, but that's supposed to be Draco's thing.

"Really?"

"Yes," Draco says. He twists his mouth to the side, half in amusement, half in irritation. Potter's paired the bolognese with a lovely Sangiovese, and Draco picks up his wine glass and takes a sip. "Why? Do you need me to stroke your ego more?" Potter snorts into his pasta.

"Nothing like that," he says. "I just figured that the Malfoy heir would only eat the best food."

"I just told you about the time I'd eaten burnt pasta, Potter," Draco says, flicking his eyes up at the man before turning his attention back to his food.

"Mm," Potter says. "You're saying you've only had bad food recently? And so this isn't delicious, merely good in comparison. I see." Draco frowns at him, but the only look on Potter's face is one of amusement.

"Can you teach me how to make it?" Draco asks, biting down on his pride.

"Only if you don't flounce out of the room next time." Potter catches his eye and grins.

"I didn't flounce—" Draco narrows his eyes.

"—Yes, you did."

"Sometimes I intensely dislike you," Draco says. Potter lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Draco takes another sip of wine.

"Many do."

"Oh, bullshit." Potter just shrugs again and turns his attention back to his food. Draco curls his lip slightly but doesn't say any more.

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence, the only noise in the kitchen being that of their cutlery against the plates. When Draco's done, he stands up and makes his way over to the sink. It's been years since he's washed dishes by hand — a punishment often handed down by his mother when he'd done something wrong — but as Potter had made the food, Draco feels it's his duty to clean up.

He turns the sink on and waits for the water to heat up, lounging against the counter as he does. It's only then that he notices that Potter is staring at him.

"What?" he asks. The word comes out more harshly than he had intended.

"You're washing up?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Nothing." Potter turns back to his food. He's all but finished now, twisting the last few strands of spaghetti around his fork. When he's done, he pulls his napkin out from the neck of his shirt, balls it up and puts it on his plate. Without saying anything, Draco walks over and gathers up his things. Potter jumps as Draco reaches from behind him, but doesn't say anything as Draco starts to run the plates under the water.

Instead, after staring into his wine glass for a long moment, Potter drains it and then leaves.

As soon as he's left the room, Draco feels the tension go out of his shoulders. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been with Potter around, but he does feel rather like he's been walking on eggshells all night. All day, really.

At least now, with Potter gone, he can roll up his sleeves and get to cleaning properly. He wonders if there are kitchen gloves anywhere and checks under the sink for them. There are. They're yellow and utilitarian, but when Draco pulls them on, they cover enough of his forearms that he thinks he'll be fine doing future dishes in front of Potter. Only the very top of the skull shows.

He wonders, not for the first time whether this was a mistake. Should he be staying here? With Potter of all people? But he was being honest when he'd said he didn't have anywhere else to do, so he's going to have to make it work.

Once the dishes are done, and drip drying in the dish rack, Draco follows Potter upstairs. He doesn't see Potter at all on the walk back to his room and from the closed door at the end of the corridor on the second floor, Draco assumes he's gone to bed. Or, at least, has locked himself in his room for the night.

"Goodnight," he says to the empty corridor, just in case Potter can hear him. Then he walks into his room and shuts the door behind him.

…

It's strange, sleeping in a new bed. The pillows aren't quite right and Draco can't decide if the duvet is too heavy or not heavy enough. Either way, it feels foreign on top of him. It takes him a good twenty minutes to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. And even then, he stares at the canopy of the four poster for a long while, taking in the intricate embroidery there, before his eyes finally drift shut.

He dreams of driving through country lanes in the Bentley. Driving, and driving, and never getting to where he needs to be, even though he knows he needed to be there ten minutes ago. It's a nightmare he's had many times before — so many times that it almost feels lazy. And at least it's not one of the bad ones. At least it's not one of the dreams that sends him rocketing awake, heart pounding and covered in sweat. Or one of the ones that his mother tells him he screams through. He hopes those ones stay away. He's not sure he could live down Potter hearing him screaming in his sleep.

The playlist for this story can be found here: open. spotify. com playlist/0vRbBCRYnn2jhRjCwX4Ncf?si=bf1727a2a5b74cb7br (remove the spaces)

I will be adding songs to it as I post each chapter, so currently it's 2 songs long, but it will change :)