It was long after dark when Harry walked through the doors of the manor. He was wearing a black suit Theo made him wear to make a good impression, but it was uncomfortable and had been bothering him all day. He was exhausted and looking forward to taking off his damn clothes and collapsing into his husband's arms for some much needed rest.
His new job came with a lot of constraints he hadn't considered beforehand.
The first was the fact that he didn't know a word of French. Not a word. He felt like an idiot when he arrived on the first day and had to work in pairs with a French woman who barely spoke English.
Fortunately, Theo showed him a spell that allowed him to translate discussions without thinking, which helped a lot. Without that and the letter of recommendation from Robards, he probably would have been fired immediately.
The second constraint came from the fact that the members of the French Ministry had not planned to train him. He'd never worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and was having to learn while on the job. Harry was accustomed to the unparalleled respect his name granted him in Britain. He had not expected to be ignored and treated like any other employee. His ego had taken a hit, something Theo had laughed at a lot.
As he took off his coat, Satine apparated in front of him with a pop.
"Good evening, Master Harry," she said, bowing. "Satine hopes her Master has had a good day."
"Good evening, Satine," he replied as he undid his tie and first buttons of his shirt. "Very good, thank you. Is Theo in bed? Have you had dinner?"
"We have had dinner, yes, Master. Master Theo is in the studio."
Harry nodded his thanks and went to join his husband.
It didn't matter that they had been married for months, his heart still fluttered at the thought of Theo being his husband. He was honoured to come home every night knowing Theo was waiting for him at their house. His heart warmed every time he thought about it. His husband. They were married.
If anyone had told his past self that, he surely wouldn't have believed them. Onceconvinced he wouldn't live past seventeen, that Harry was now a changed person. His life was so exquisite, he could hardly believe it. It was a dream.
He entered the studio and smiled at the sight of his husband working on a new piece at his desk..
"Good evening," Theo said without taking his eyes off his drawing.
"Good evening, love," Harry replied, joining him at a slow pace. "Sorry to be back so late, I–"
"You were working." Theo cut him off, turning to face Harry. Theo dropped his pencil in the process, a mocking sneer on his lips.
"You're going to have to stop making excuses for living, darling."
Harry rolled his eyes. It was instinct to worry about Theo. He couldn't help it. Since being reunited, every moment of separation was agony for Harry. He was constantly imagining a stream of horrors involving his husband's death or return to Azkaban. He had no control over what could happen in his absence. Satine promised to warn him if anything went wrong, but it was not enough to reassure him.
According to Theo's healer, Theo needed a presence, a constant companionship after years of loneliness. He needed something to keep him busy and motivate him out of the traumatic state prison had left him in.
Even though Theo was doing everything to hide it, he wasn't living normally. He was not well, despite appearances and efforts to feign indifference. Harry held him through the haunting nightmares and memories of prison that woke him every night until he fell back to sleep. He also had trouble focusing, drifting off into his thoughts even as they were having conversations.
Harry struggled to see him like this. He would turn the whole world upside down so that his husband would get better. However, as Healer Vallotton told him, there was nothing he could do except support him through his therapy. Supporting him meant making sure he went to every appointment, ate and slept properly, was not drawn to any substance abuse, and went out of the manor at least once a day.
So he settled for that, albeit with great frustration.
"How did your session go?" he asked, moving closer to Theo until he had his arms around his neck. Then he leaned forward to rest his chin on his shoulder.
"Fine," Theo replied simply.
Harry gritted his teeth. It wasn't a good enough answer and they both knew it.
"Meaning...?"
Theo sighed.
"We've been talking about my father," he admitted as he started drawing again.
Art was a good distraction. Harry knew how sensitive this subject was for his husband, never daring himself to explore beyond what Theo was willing to tell him. Knowing how traumatic it was for him, he was content with that.
Neither of them had much luck with their families.
Harry remained silent as he waited for Theo to be ready to continue.
"He asked me when I last saw him and how it went. I replied that even though he was one of the most dangerous Death Eaters, he had not been placed in isolation and that I often passed him in the common areas of the prison. I never understood why. I don't think even Draco had access, I never saw him there."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. This was information he and Blaise had not wanted to share with Theo. Not yet, anyway. They both knew him well enough to know that Theo might get carried away and want to do something to help Draco, even though he was in no condition to do so.
Obviously, they had been wrong to think that he wasn't aware of this detail. He'd figured it out on his own and it made Harry's stomach tighten. He was angry at himself for keeping it from him, even though he knew the risks of such a discussion.
"He–he pulled me aside in a corridor once," Theo admitted in a low voice.
Harry immediately began to run his finger along the tattoo on his husband's neck. Over the weeks and months that passed, he learned how to relax Theo during discussions that were heavy, this was one of the more effective ways.
"I still have traces of what he did to me. The guards turned their heads at that kind of must have thought we deserved it."
Harry tightened his grip on Theo's shoulders to hold him closer. Theo swallowed.
"I couldn't talk about it any longer," he whispered guiltily. "It was too hard."
"You've already done a lot. I'm so proud of you, love. You're strong, I know you'll get through this."
Harry closed his eyes as he heard his husband's sobs. He clenched his jaws and silently vowed to bring up the wardens' unconscionable behaviour, to get revenge for what they had dared to do–or allowed to happen–to the man he loved. He would avenge him.
oOo
The kitchen turned out to be a goldmine. In every corner, Draco discovered something new. Strange utensils, foodstuffs, ancient china, Muggle products he had never seen before...
He had plenty to do. In three days, he explored the whole room as well as the pantry. He'd observed the outside of the house through the large windows, dreaming of a time he'd be able to venture there.
He'd waited for Albert to recover before resuming his investigations. Although he wasn't as frightened of the dog as before, he still wasn't comfortable in its company.
Granger hadn't kept him informed of Albert's condition–he hadn't asked her after all–but considering that after a few days he started to accompany her to work again, Draco inferred that he recovered.
Now thatDraco had finally completed his exploration of the kitchen, he was ready to move toward his goals of taking action.
After showering and eating breakfast, Draco made his way down to the ground floor. The stairs were familiar to him by now, so he didn't even stop on the way down.
After all, he'd had time to get used to them and Granger's step towards him the week before had helped a lot. He felt better, more comfortable, more integrated. A barrier that kept them apart despite them living together had fallen.
He no longer felt that he needed to fear her or that she was just a stranger. They didn't communicate more–that would have been surprising–but things had changed. He felt better. He felt almost at home. Almost.
Draco entered the kitchen with a large book tucked under his arm. Today, his mission was to try to make the first dish of his life. He decided on a pie, something simple. After all, the lunch Granger concocted was already waiting for him in his room. He didn't want to waste anything. Memories of the barely nourishing meals in Azkaban prevented him from doing so.
He set the book down on the counter and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He had made it. He'd made progress in one of his goals.
Something good swelled in his chest over what he'd managed to do, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time. He was proud. Proud. Now that he had climbed the slope, he could finally enjoy the view.
He wanted to share it, to tell someone else about it... He wanted to celebrate it, to shout, to scream out how proud he was. He felt a heavy pang of sorrow as he realised that the only person he would have wanted to tell, the only person he liked to tell about his achievements, great and small, was his mother.
He turned to the window above the sink and looked at the sky. Inwardly, he hoped that, from where she was, his mother was listening. That she knew.
He unconsciously ran his finger over his right ring finger, which he found empty. Although he was used to its absence, he thought about the signet ring he once wore proudly lying in his unopened bag upstairs. It was so close and yet so far away.
He shook his head to stop himself from thinking about it. He couldn't let it distract him from his objective for the day. Unpacking the damn bag would be his mission for another time, he promised himself.
He opened the cookbook to the recipe for apple pie he was planning to make, though he'd already learned it by heart. Wanting to feel confident of what was to come, he read it dozens of times.
According to the book in question, the apple season started in September–something he had no idea about before his fixation on the art of cooking–so this was the perfect recipe, as he had seen some in the kitchen on his first visit.
He needed six apples, vanilla or vanilla sugar, butter, flour, sugar and salt. He checked beforehand that Granger owned each ingredient and that they were all stored in the pantry. He had to approach some contraption that made noise. From what Pansy had told him in a letter, it was a refrigerator.
She explained its purpose and he quickly realised that the butter would be in it. The hardest part would probably be figuring out how to open and operate it. He was not there yet.
He reread the first step of the preparation one last time and took out the utensils–of which he had memorised the locations of–one by one. He then realised that opening a fridge was no more complicated than opening a cupboard. He felt like an idiot.
He needed to mix the flour, salt and sugar in a dish to start the dough. This step seemed so easy that Draco almost laughed.
Although he had read the recipe several times, he was convinced it would be complicated, if not impossible. However, now that he was in front of the utensils and ingredients, it all seemed ridiculous. So he dove in.
His movements were shaky and uncertain at first, but Draco quickly regained his old potionist's reflexes. Once the dough was ready, he cut the apple slices with precision and took pleasure in the fact that they were perfectly thin and similarly shaped.
At first, the sight of such a large blade froze him, unsure if he would be able to use it without doing something stupid. It offered so many possibilities that it almost made him dizzy. It looked like the one he'd seen in Azkaban's bathroom and the razor upstairs. But he held back each time. It prevented him from going any further than simply cutting up the apples.
He did it perfectly, meticulously.
According to the recipe, he then had to put the mixture in the oven. He spent a long time trying to understand what that meant, until Pansy explained that it was a way of cooking food. This involved the use of an oven, an object often embedded in walls or furniture, which was shaped like a square and had a handle on top to open it.
He easily spotted it and approached it. He then mentally repeated to himself Pansy's instructions for turning it on. He had to turn the knobs to activate the heat and wait for the oven to beep to announce that it was ready to cook the food.
He proceeded to preheat it and prepared the top of the pie in the meantime. He cut strips from the remaining pastry and covered the filling with them. This way, the fruit would be well stewed between the two layers of pastry.
Once the oven was ready, he put his dish in the oven, taking care not to burn himself, as Pansy had specified in her last letter, and waited for the pie to bake. He set up a chair in front of the oven, and sat down to mentally count the seconds. He knew how to do that. Counting was his specialty. So he counted, every second, every minute.
One, two, three...
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight...
Six hundred and thirty-three, six hundred and thirty-four, six hundred and thirty-five...
One thousand, one thousand and one, two thousand, three thousand...
After eighteen hundred seconds, Draco jumped to his feet, finally ready to take the pie out of the oven. He was overexcited, so eager to see if he'd succeeded in his very first recipe.
The sweet smell of warm apples wafted through the kitchen and it made his mouth water. It was the simplest dessert in the book he had found, but this pie was also his favourite. The best apple pie he'd ever tasted was prepared by his former house elf, Dobby. He still remembered it very well. He hadn't eaten anything so sweet and good since before his time in Azkaban. Granger cooked his meals, but she didn't provide him with particularly delicious ones. Most of the time, she'd settle for fruit or yoghurt for dessert, and while he didn't complain about it, he had to admit he was thrilled at the thought of eating his favourite dessert again. He had even considered asking Pansy for it.
As he took the dish out of the oven, his hands well protected by a clean tea towel, he began to worry that his pie would be inedible. What if he made a mistake in the recipe? What if he had put in too much flour? Too much dough? Not enough apples or too much sugar?
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to calm down and stop panicking. He couldn't afford to be so anxious about such a thing. Much like a potion recipe, he was unlikely to get it right the first time. He had to put it into perspective. He would have other opportunities to train, wouldn't he?
Besides, the smell of baked apples in the kitchen suggested he hadn't completely failed.
He placed the dish on the counter and took out a clean knife to cut a slice. The recipe recommended waiting for the pie to cool before tasting it, but that didn't stop him from discovering what the inside looked like.
From the outside, the pie looked perfect. The pastry was lightly golden and the apples were steaming underneath. As he cut into it, bits of cooked fruit dripped from between the layers of pastry, making his mouth water.
He was so hungry that he didn't wait any longer to taste it, no matter how hot it was.
It was an explosion of flavours. Even if it didn't measure up to Dobby's, it was still delicious, especially after years of not eating anything sweeter than raw fruit.
He closed his eyes as the exquisite taste triggered a flood of memories. It reminded him of childhood afternoons spent at the manor. Where he had been raised. Where he had grown up. Where he had learned to fly, to write, to draw...
He devoured his slice without further ado and cut a second one as soon as it was finished. He felt so good, so relaxed and that left him feeling surprised. It seemed so simple. Was this all he needed to feel good?
He was not going to forget this moment.
Once recovered from his emotions, he put away the cleaned utensils and ingredients he had used. It was the first time he'd washed the dishes himself and, admittedly, it was not as horrible of a task as he imagined.
The water running over his hands was pleasant, allowing him time to concentrate on something other than his thoughts. His mind was focused on the cleanup rather than what he was going to do next, or what would happen to the rest of the apple pie.
Only when he'd put all the utensils and ingredients in their places did the questions resurface. What was he going to do with almost an entire pie? He wasn't going to be able to eat it all, but should he throw it in the garbage?
He couldn't take it back to his room as Wynn might pounce on it.
Draco sighed. He had no choice but to leave it there and that bothered him. Granger was bound to see it. He didn't mind the idea of her eating his pie, but she would know that he had used her kitchen. What if she didn't want him to? What if...
Draco clenched his fist and inwardly chided himself. He couldn't afford to turn his ruminations over in his mind again. It was a pie. A simple pie.
And he was sure Granger would like it.
oOo
Hermione entered her house, Albert close behind her. He was in perfect health after taking the antibiotics prescribed by the vet for several vet diagnosed him with an ear infection, which explained the pain he had been in and the state Hermione had found him in.
In just a few days his ailments disappeared, but Hermione had still taken extreme precautions to prevent it from getting worse or lasting. She would now know that her dog was more susceptible to ear infections than others.
Hermione closed the door behind her, but frowned as she smelled a sweet scent coming from the kitchen.
She put her bag on the floor, more intrigued than worried–for once–and headed in. Albert did not leave her side, seeming intrigued by what he smelled as well.
Her kitchen had been used. The discovery made her heart beat faster. Pansy was right: Malfoy was getting his bearings.
There was an apple pie waiting for her on the counter and Hermione grabbed a slice, surprised by her lack of fear of it.
It was the best thing she'd tasted in a long time. It brought a discreet smile to her face.