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Of course I'm the better cook! I add love to every dish I make!
Harry rolled his eyes at the memory of his own words; the words that made Draco suggest that instead of fighting, he and Kreacher would just compete against each other in a cook-off. With him as the judge, of course.
Harry agreed right away; Kreacher was reluctant, unsure whether Draco would be able to be impartial, considering he was married to Harry, and all. Harry had said that maybe they were married, but Kreacher had the advantage of being a part of shaping Draco’s taste preferences.
So they settled on having three judges; Draco, and one selected judge for each Harry and Kreacher. Harry chose Ron, knowing that regardless of what was being served to him, he would vote for Harry; Kreacher chose Pansy Parkinson, knowing that the pureblood would most likely vote for the purist house-elf.
So Harry found himself slaving in the kitchen trying to make the best Alfredo pasta he'd ever made, while Kreacher was making his own creation of Lasagna.
The large room was filled with scents of delicious fresh tomatoes cooking with basil and various other ingredients. Harry wasn't the only one who felt dizzy from how good the tomato sauce Kreacher was making seemed; he could see all three judges constantly drifting to sniff it, looking curiously at Kreacher's work, while only when they remembered he existed did Harry see their eyes moving to him.
This wasn't good. Wasn't good at all.
He kneaded his dough and watched, panicking, as Draco got up from his seat and walked towards Kreacher's area. He said something, received a spoonful of sauce in return, and put it in his mouth. Harry's mouth almost dropped – and his insides definitely tightened in a knot – when he saw Draco's eyes close in pleasure, recognizing his expression all too well; mostly from other home activities, but it was unmistakable.
Harry was about to lose. And he had to do something about it.
Wrecking his brain, finding it difficult to think from working his dough. He should get credit for making his own from scratch, he thought to himself. Unlike Kreacher, who used magic, the little cheater.
Harry paused his work as an idea formed in his mind. Kreacher wasn't the only one who could cheat. Pansy was a lost cause, and Ron would vote for him no matter what; but Draco…
Draco could be influenced, and Harry had an advantage over him that Kreacher could never have.
Smirking, Harry moved on to flattening his dough. He had a small machine for it – a manual one – and he made sure to let out a soft, deliberately sexual groan as he started moving the handle to flatten the dough.
He felt everyone's eyes moving to watch him. Kreacher glanced at him, huffed, and returned to his work. Ron looked puzzled. Pansy had her eyebrow arched, but overall looked very unimpressed.
And Draco looked… intrigued.
"Harry, are you okay there? You could use magic you know," Ron sounded genuinely worried.
Harry fought his laughter. "No, it's alright. Magic will just ruin it, take out the personal touch of it." He looked instead at Draco, meeting his silver eyes, and kept working the handle. Harry offered a smirk and made a show of flexing his bicep with the movement.
"What are you working so hard on?" Draco asked and moved closer to him.
"Oh, just making the pasta," Harry said, keeping his tone neutral and innocent. Like he didn't just use the knowledge that Draco couldn't resist Harry's strong arms to his advantage. "I need to flatten the dough so I can cut and cook it."
"I see."
Harry could tell that Draco was already straining to control himself, could already recognize the slight difference in tone, the hint of hoarseness.
And he didn't even start yet.
"Oh, Draco, if you're already here, could you pass me the knife, please?"
"That'd be considered help, master Potter! It is against the rules!"
"Oh, shut it, Kreacher, he's just getting a knife, it's not like he's going to spell the dough not to break or something."
The house elf frowned at Ron, but returned to his own cooking without further complaints.
Draco shrugged, and reached over to grab a knife, handing it to Harry handle-first. Harry offered him a sweet smile and reached to take it from him, making sure to accidentally brush his fingers over Draco's. He heard his little gasp, but pretended he didn’t notice, turning back to flattening his dough. Draco lingered, but he walked away when Harry didn’t pay any more attention to him and sat back on his chair next to Parkinson.
He frowned, annoyed and disappointed, when the dough broke. Tears were forming in his otherwise perfect sheet. He wasn’t sure what he did wrong, but he didn’t think he had time to fix it. Kreacher was already almost done with his lasagna sheets; plus, fucking up would surely take off some points from his score. He worked his brain, trying to think about how he could fix this, moving the dough around and just creating further damage.
Then it hit him. Who said that pasta had to be perfectly shaped? His mind was racing; he could just keep tearing it apart, and have pasta shreds. No one would know it wasn’t his initial intention. Smiling, he started tearing the dough intentionally. He then moved on, grabbing the knife and turning his attention to the onion. The knife was sharp and required almost no strength at all; but Harry still flexed his bicep, glancing at Draco to make sure he was watching, fighting a smirk when he saw that his man’s full attention was on him and his motions.
When the onion was ready, he moved on to cut the mushrooms he’d prepared earlier.
“Potter, what are you doing?”
He was caught. He knew that Ron wouldn’t understand, but he should’ve known Parkinson would be a bit more attentive. He considered stopping his little show; but knew that it would mean losing, and he wasn’t going to lose to Kreacher.
So he looked at her and smiled sheepishly. “I’m just cutting these nice, plump and firm mushrooms.”
At the corner of his eyes, he could see the slight pinkness starting to spread on Draco’s cheeks at his words, and knew that his plan, even though he got caught, was working.
“Please, Potter.“
“Oh, just let him cook, alright?
Harry wanted to kiss Ron for helping him out, because he could think of no excuses. Parkinson glared at Ron, then glared at Harry, and then crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine then, but doing all that’s not going to make your food taste better, Potter.”
“He’s going to make the best pasta ever, you’ll see!”
Harry let them keep talking, focusing his attention on Draco again, and on putting on his little show for him.
With his vegetables ready, it was time to start with the actual cooking. He put a pan on the stove and turned the fire on, throwing some butter into it. He added in the onions and sauteed them before throwing in the mushrooms as well. Stealing another glance at Draco, seeing he was still very much focused on him, Harry held the pan’s handle, and mixed the vegetables in swift throwing movements.
It was almost ready when he had another idea. “Oh, it’s so hot in here…” he said, his voice almost innocent. He looked directly at Draco as he made a show out of taking off his shirt, one button at a time. Draco was smitten. Just as he shrugged it off, making sure to move all his back muscles for Draco to see, he realized that he was smelling something burning.
Shit. His butter.
He let his shirt drop to the floor and picked up the heavy cream instead, pouring it into the pan. He was in such a hurry that when he put it away, a little bit of the cream dripped on his wrist. He reached over for a napkin; but then he had a better idea.
He brought his hand to his mouth, and, while maintaining eye contact with Draco, proceeded to lick the white liquid off his skin. Slowly. Harry had to fight the urge to laugh as Draco moved slightly in his seat.
“That’s hardly sanitary…”
Harry ignored Parkinson, giving in to his smirk instead, and turned to season his sauce and cook his pasta. After that it didn’t take much longer for the dish to be ready, and a glance at the other side of the kitchen told him that Kreacher was done as well and was now plating his lasagna. Harry grabbed plates and poured the pasta into each, murmuring a spell to clean the edges before he walked over and placed them on the little tables Kreacher had conjured in the meanwhile.
He watched, anxious, as the three judges tasted both dishes, could already tell all his little mishaps had indeed made his pasta almost inedible.
“Well?” Kreacher pressed. He looked pleased with himself.
Harry felt his heart beat increasing. He could not lose to Kreacher.
“I vote for Harry,” Ron announced. He placed his fork down, grimacing as he swallowed the last of his bite of Harry’s pasta.
Harry’s chest tightened.
“Oh, of course you do. Well, I vote for Kreacher. It was at least edible.”
His only hope was that he managed to get Draco horny enough to cloud his judgement. He watched him as he looked at both dishes, watched his mouth as he moved his tongue on his lips. Harry could recognize his little mannerisms, could imagine the struggle inside him.
Eventually, Draco looked up, and locked his eyes with Harry’s. “I vote for Harry.”
Harry smirked broadly.
Parkinson scoffed. “Slytherins.”