Curled up in a chair at the far reaches of the library, Harry is having a hard time concentrating. It's nearing three in the afternoon and he's not sure what to do with himself. When his stomach starts growling, an idea comes to him and he hurries down to the kitchens.
"Tovo!" he hollers, hoping that she's the right elf to call.
"Yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir?" She seems a bit startled by his sudden beckoning.
"Tovo. Can you help me get everything together to make dinner?"
"Mr. Harry Potter, sir wants to cook?" She blanches and steps backward, gripping the leg of a nearby table.
"Yes!" Harry says enthusiastically. "I've done it before. It's been a while, but it shouldn't be problem."
His mind is already assessing the kitchen and its various implements. It's a wizarding kitchen, much like the one at Grimmauld Place. "Okay, show me where all the pots and pans are and I should be good to go." He looks to Tovo, who's now shrunken fully into a corner. "Are you going to help me—or do I need to call for Malve?"
"Malve?" She squeaks out the name. "Oh, Mr. Harry Potter, sir shouldn't call Malve for this." She turns to the side and hits her forehead repeatedly against the table.
"Stop it. Why don't you want me to call her?"
"She would kill Tovo for letting Mr. Harry Potter, sir mess up her kitchen." The hopeful light in her eyes is pitiful and Harry can't help but laugh.
"Never you mind. Just help me." He's already moving around like a whirlwind, looking for various sizes of pots and baking dishes.
After nearly three hours of chaos, Harry has a presentable roast with a side of vegetables ready on the dining table. He's setting out something to drink when Draco stumbles through the door—but he's not alone.
The two men are entangled in one another's outer robes, fumbling to get as close to each other as possible. Draco's leaning forward to bite the ear of the shorter man and a moan slips out. The other man spots Harry and pushes Draco back. He smiles lazily and licks at the man's jaw.
"Harry, meet Matthew. Matthew, meet Harry, my—" he hesitates, "—roommate."
Harry's cheeks are burning and he sets the glass down a bit harshly. Tovo glares from beside Harry and shakes out a napkin rather roughly before folding it and placing it neatly beside the roast.
"Making dinner? How thoughtful. Hope you enjoy it!" Draco's words slur a little, but the point comes across crystal clear.
Then Draco's tugging Matthew away while the latter gives Harry a look of pity. Harry turns away in shame before Matthew chases Draco down the hall.
"Mr. Harry Potter, sir?" Tovo offers as a small kindness.
"It's fine, Tovo." Harry steps away from the table. "Please, ask the other elves to join you and eat the roast."
Tovo gasps, but remains where she is as Harry walks away.
It's difficult to walk past Draco's door, knowing he'd normally be headed there in a few hours for a restful sleep. Instead, he turns right. His old room greets him as a daunting demon. It embraces him in cold arms and an even colder chill. Harry is unable to sleep for most of the night.
When he does, he's woken by screams from across the hall. Apparently Matthew's left for the night, Harry thinks. Resolutely, he slips from his bed and tugs the blanket with him. He crawls into the corner and wraps the blanket tightly around legs and arms that refuse to stay warm. As the screams continue, Harry throws up a silencing charm to block out the pain.
The next couple of days are spent in his room. He doesn't go down to breakfast, nor does he sneak out to the library. He moves listlessly across the room from his chaise by the window to the corner, then back again. Occasionally, he tries to sleep. Most of the time, he fails.
Harry allows himself the pleasure of breakfast with Tovo after much begging on her part. Surrounded by the chatter of birds and watching a nearby peacock, Harry doesn't notice at first when Draco arrives.
Tovo looks between them, but only disappears to bring Draco a plate. He nods and begins eating. They don't talk.
It stuns Harry that Draco is the first to cave when the food is running out. "What the fuck is this?" He gestures between them.
"I'm sorry?" Harry blinks rapidly to try and digest everything—both the food he's attempting to swallow and the question.
"This, Potter. What is it?"
"I-I don't know."
Draco's lips thin and Harry's afraid of the response coming, so he interjects, "I'll leave if you want me to." His head drops; his fork drags through the last of his eggs.
Across the table, Draco stares at him, intense but confused.
"I'm beginning to wonder if you want to leave." Draco says, deadpan. At Harry's hurt look, Draco sighs and says, "No." Almost strained, he follows with, "Stay."
Draco gets up and swiftly leaves. Harry does nothing but watch as he goes.
When Draco comes home after work, Harry is wedged back in his favorite chair in the library.
"Have you eaten?"
The platinum locks hanging mid-air around the corner of the door shock Harry.
"Um, no?"
"Get ready to go out."
Harry doesn't move when Draco leaves. He's puzzled by the entire exchange, so he stays put to mull it over. In five minutes' time, when Draco returns—this time his body accompanying his head—Harry just fidgets.
"Coming, Potter?"
Harry scrambles to get dressed and meets Draco outside his room. Without much notice, Draco grabs hold of his left arm and disapparates them.
Before him is a city street much like London's working district. Harry looks back and forth, but Draco's already walking off, so he hurries to catch up. When Draco holds open a door to a restaurant, Harry's puzzled look makes Draco chuckle softly.
"In, Potter." Harry complies.
Their waiter approaches the table with a suggestion for wine pairings. Draco listens, but declines. "Harry?"
"Oh, no. Thank you." He waves it off and goes back to studying the menu.
"You didn't have to. It's me you need to worry about. You can still indulge."
"It's fine." Harry says curtly. "I shouldn't either."
Dinner consists of steak, grilled asparagus, and some form of sweet potato Harry's unfamiliar with. Everything is savory and he allows each bite to rest in his mouth long enough to remember the flavor before devouring it.
"Enjoying yourself?" Draco asks, one side of his mouth lifting as if he knows the answer, but doesn't want to give it away.
Harry shrugs. "I'm not sure why you brought me here."
"You needed to get out. Eat something other than Malve's favorites." Draco's laughing at him, he's sure of it.
"I enjoy Malve's cooking."
"As do I, but I can only have pasta so often. That elf would make anyone want to destroy the whole of Italy for even suggesting some good Bolognese."
Harry's eyes crinkle a little and soon he's laughing. "She does make a little too much pasta."
Draco opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it, smiling instead. They finish their meal with light conversation about plans for the week and Draco's recent cases. After paying, Draco offers Harry an arm. He's not sure if Draco plans to disapparate them right there, so he takes it. Draco escorts them out of the restaurant and back to the apparition point.
"Will you join me upstairs for a little while?" Draco asks.
"Okay," Harry replies quietly, and follows him up the stairs and into his suite.
Harry stands around listlessly while Draco tosses his robe aside. Unsure where to look or what to do with himself, Harry fiddles with the edge of his jumper. Draco unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, then drops down onto a loveseat. He pats the cushion next to him.
"Come sit, Harry."
Draco's head relaxes against the back of the loveseat, one arm stretched out behind him. As Harry sits, he feels the cushion dip and settle. His thumb is tapping rather loudly and it's echoing in the room. He tries to stop when Draco looks over, but it only speeds up. Harry smiles apologetically. This is when Draco moves closer, sidling next to Harry. He places a hand over Harry's to still the movement. Harry's thumb is trapped, so his mind races ahead. He's never done this before. Oh gods. He can feel his heart in his toes because his fingers are trapped and they're going numb beneath Draco's touch.
Draco's other hand reaches up to trace Harry's jaw. Harry stops breathing as Draco runs the tip of a finger along his bottom lip, only removed when Draco leans forward for a kiss.
Harry panics, reaching up to brace both palms against Draco's arms. Too many sensations. It's too much to think about He's not ready. Draco waits, lets him breathe, and he relaxes into the touch. Draco's lips are soft and smooth, yet insistent. He slants his head just right so that their noses don't crash into each other and their chins don't scrape. Harry thinks through each movement as if he's creating a manual for later, but he should be focusing on—Draco's tongue laps Harry's bottom lip and he gasps. Draco takes advantage, joining their tongues in a soft embrace before retreating. One last, chaste kiss is all he takes before he pulls away, lays his head on Harry's chest, and turns to watch the fire.
Why did he stop? Did he do something wrong? Harry contemplates every move again as Draco's soft snores vibrate through his chest and the crackle of the fire mocks him from across the room.