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Harry returns from the flourishing garden with a small basket filled to the brim with fresh, plump strawberries.
Most of the early afternoon was spent kneeling in the soft grass methodically tilling the soil. And later, handpicking the ripest strawberries under the familiar warmth of the sun.
Harry waves a strong cleaning charm over his body as he passes through the doorway to expel any soil and sweat that has accumulated throughout the day on his skin, t-shirt, and jeans.
He sets the basket next to the sink and gets to work, thoroughly washing the strawberries under the tap before patting them dry with a towel and piling them into a large plastic bowl. Halfway through washing, Harry’s timer emits a low buzz, signalling that the custard-filled tart shells in the oven are ready. He removes the shells and leaves them on a wire rack to cool.
Baking is an unexpected hobby that Harry fell into a little over a year ago, nearly a decade after the war ended.
He was out of practice by that point, having only rations of stolen and foraged food for sustenance during the year he spent on the run with Ron and Hermione. Eighth year was significantly better with heaping meals from the bustling Hogwarts kitchen, Molly’s cooking during breaks, and frequent trips to Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley.
With the Dursleys no longer in the picture to bark orders and sour the experience, it was easy to see why so many people, like Molly, enjoyed it. In those early months spent in the Burrow trying to find his footing post-war, she taught Harry several recipes that he still uses to this day. He grew to enjoy doing menial tasks by hand without the aid of magic.
Time was set aside every weekend to hone his skills and experiment with various confectioneries that had caught his eye. Hours were lost leafing through the small stack of Muggle cookbooks accumulated over the past several months. Hermione was one of the biggest contributors to his growing collection. She wholeheartedly supported Harry’s new hobby and would frequently pass through the Floo with a small stack of clipped recipes and books held delicately in her hands.
As for Harry, well, he found after some time that the whole baking process was rather fun and rewarding.
For one, there wasn’t anything quite like kneading the newest batch of soft dough with the floured heels of his own hands or rolling out cookie dough with a pin until the proper thickness was achieved. Mixing batter by hand was a workout (sneaking a small spoonful from the remnants along the edges of the bowl was a reward for his patience and care), and piping icing through assorted styled tips, smoothing it until he was satisfied. And there was the fact that the repetitive motions lulled him into an almost meditative state where his thoughts about work and the occasional nightmares that continued to plague him drifted out of reach.
But perhaps his favourite part of baking was the positive feedback from his friends and family. They eagerly devoured his latest creations, taking enthusiastic bites between smiles on their faces, leaving only the faintest smattering of crumbs on their plates by the time their visits came to a natural end. Ron was especially thrilled by Harry’s new part-time experiments and would sample when he could, rarely turning down seconds if offered. Sometimes Harry would make a little extra solely for Ron to take back home.
The support from his loved ones and the happiness that shone on their faces from his baking filled Harry with a warmth that not even the oven’s heat could measure up to. He knew that Draco loved returning home to the mouth-watering aromas of peanut butter cookies or freshly baked bread permeating from the kitchen and throughout the rest of their house.
When asked, Harry would tell you that some of his favourite recipes this past month have been the cookies and cream macarons, strawberry scones with a vanilla cream cheese glaze (with a generous dollop of Molly’s homemade jam that was almost sinful with how much the flavours exploded over his tongue). Last week yielded a traditional Banoffee pie that was so rich he could only enjoy a sliver during dessert.
Harry is rolling his sleeves down past his elbows after washing some of the bowls and utensils by hand when the Floo chimes in the next room. There is a short scuffling sound before soft footsteps pad through the living room and around the corner, and Harry looks up through his fringe to see Draco standing in the entryway of their kitchen with his eyes closed. Draco’s chest moves as he inhales deeply.
“It smells divine,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, opening his eyes and heading to the middle of the kitchen island where the custard-filled tarts have nearly finished cooling. “I’m willing to bet several galleons they will taste even better.”
Harry leans a hip against the counter. “Good evening to you too,” he says with a smile. “Did you have a nice dinner at the Manor?”
“Yes,” Draco says, returning the smile and removing his dress robes to fold them over one arm. “Mother says hello, and thank you for the box of confectionaries. I was to inform you that ‘they were delicious, thank you, Harry.’ She hopes to see us both late next week for dinner.” He pads over to Harry and kisses his cheek. “Hello, darling,” he breathes against Harry’s skin before turning to press their cheeks together.
“Hello,” Harry replies, leaning into Draco’s comforting touch. “I’ll send Narcissa an owl tonight thanking her and to see if there is anything specific she wants me to make soon.” He reaches out to scoop some leftover custard from the bowl with a hooked finger and holds it out expectantly. “Would you like a taste?”
“Always,” Draco replies. “Just a moment,” he says, leaving Harry and striding back over to the coat rack beside the Floo to hang his robes up. Upon returning, there is no hesitation before he bends forward and takes Harry’s finger in his mouth, forming a seal. A slight flush creeps up into Harry’s cheeks at the gesture.
He sucks in a breath as Draco’s tongue swirls around for several heartbeats, and his cheeks hollow before Harry’s finger is released with an audible pop. Draco swallows, and his tongue pokes out to run the length of his bottom lip. Even after several years together and even filthier acts between them, Draco can still elicit this kind of response from Harry. It’s equally sexy and a bother as Draco loves to tease him at the most inopportune moments.
“Well?” Harry asks as he turns and busies himself, wiping the remaining dishes dry as a distraction. Draco hums thoughtfully behind him. Harry opens the cupboards and returns some of the dishware to their respective places before arms come around his waist, and a familiar, comforting warmth presses against the length of his back. A weight falls on his shoulder, and Draco’s soft hair brushes against his cheek.
“I believe that may be your best custard to date,” Draco murmurs into his ear.
A smile breaks out across Harry’s face as he tilts his head against Draco’s again. “I thought so, too,” he says.
Draco turns to plant another brief kiss on his cheek before unwrapping his arms and stepping away. Harry mourns the loss immediately. He closes the cupboards and turns around, leaning against the sink. Draco has taken residence up by the island, hovering over the bowl of whole strawberries Harry left there to garnish the tarts with.
“Our garden yielded a great crop this year,” Draco says, flicking his eyes from the bowl to the window over Harry’s shoulder that looks into the yard.
Their garden is another one of Harry’s projects that he insists on tending to by hand. It took some trial and error and several gardening books, but now it is home to all sorts of fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Sometimes when the weather is pleasant, Draco will join Harry with his sleeves rolled up, both hands occupied with glasses filled to the brim with ice and water, or another beverage they had around. He would muck about in the soil with Harry long enough that puddles of water formed around the base of the glass.
“It did,” Harry replies. “All of our hard work paid off.”
“Your hard work,” Draco corrects as he takes a large strawberry from the bowl and rolls it between his fingers. “I hardly contributed in comparison.”
“You helped a lot,” Harry insists.
“No,” Draco says with a slight shake of his head. “You were the one sweating your arse off.” He tosses the strawberry gently into the air and catches it. “I didn’t get my hands and clothes nearly as filthy as you,” Draco continues, pointing the strawberry in Harry’s direction and making eye contact. “If you weren’t so delectable with your muscles rippling under your thin muggle shirts, perhaps I wouldn’t be distracted and could assist more,” he finishes with a raised eyebrow and a smirk as he gives Harry an appraising look from head to toe.
Magic faintly crackles between them at his words, and Harry shivers from both the heated appraisal and the familiar touch of Draco’s magic reaching out and caressing his exposed skin. Draco raises his hand and inserts the entire strawberry into his mouth without a word. A barely audible moan escapes his lips no more than two heartbeats later as he bites down and savours the taste before swiftly taking the stem off. He wandlessly vanishes the leafy remains with a slight flick of his wrist.
Harry is helpless to watch the scene unfold. His head is a bit fuzzy with how the mood has become charged so quickly. Draco finishes eating and turns to grab another. He turns around and saunters up to Harry, crowding him against the counter and pushing the ripened strawberry against his slightly parted lips. The granite counter digs into the back of Harry’s thighs as his eyes rake over Draco’s heated expression. He can feel Draco’s chest against his own as they breathe. Draco rests his free hand on Harry’s hip and squeezes it.
“Open.”
The command sends a shiver through Harry, and he is helpless to do anything but obey in the moment. In the back of Harry’s mind, he makes a mental note to pay Draco back.
For now, he indulges Draco by raising a hand to grasp Draco’s forearm in a loose grip and opening his mouth. Draco pinches the stem to hold it steady as he feeds Harry. Harry bites down just before the stem, and his teeth graze Draco’s fingertips. He glances up to see the slight stain on Draco’s lips from the strawberry juice and nips at his fingertips. Draco retracts his hand to vanish the stem as Harry swallows. Harry’s hand falls and wraps around to press against Draco’s back.
Draco’s sticky mouth meets Harry’s for a chaste kiss.
“Mmm,” he hums, swiping his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip once before breaking away. “Sweet and delicious.” A hand reaches into Harry’s hair at his nape and tugs gently at the roots making Harry close his eyes. “As I expected.”
His other hand comes up to Harry’s face, cupping his jaw. His thumb glides along Harry’s cheek as he leans down. “You had a smudge of flour,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear, sending another shiver down his spine, “right there.” He nips at Harry’s jawline before pulling away.
It takes Harry almost a full minute to steady himself from Draco’s gravelly voice and wandering touches. He blinks and looks up to see Draco smirking at him, a knowing smile dancing along his lips. Draco has the innate ability to steal Harry’s breath away, and he loves to tease Harry mercilessly, knowing the effect it has on his sensibilities.
“We’ll be resuming this later tonight,” Harry promises with a slight growl.
“I look forward to it,” replies Draco with a smirk, letting his hand fall from Harry’s side and retreating. Fresh on the heels of his mischief, Draco returns to the tarts and reaches out. Even years out of practice, Harry’s old seeker reflexes allow him to gently smack Draco’s hand out of the way.
“You need to be patient,” he admonishes, inclining his head to the clock above the mantle that reads 5:52. “The others will be here in a couple of minutes, and then you can enjoy the fruits of my labour.” His voice comes out a little breathier than he’d like. Harry can almost feel Draco’s answering eye roll at his back as he turns and fills the kettle with water for tea.
“Alright, alright,” Draco concedes with a slight whine. “I better go change and freshen up then.” His eyes travel along Harry’s face. “You should too, darling. You’re looking a little flushed before our unruly group of friends is due to arrive.” His fingers gently card through Harry’s hair as he leaves.
Harry sighs and pointedly ignores Draco’s nimble hand darting out to grab one last strawberry from the bowl out of his periphery before Draco beelines toward the stairs. Draco is fortunate that Harry picked more than he may need, or else he would have had a very stern talking to before his departure.
He takes these final minutes to putter around the kitchen one last time, giving everything a final wipe down before washing his hands thoroughly. He trims the stems from the remaining strawberries and gently nestles them whole, cut side down into the cooled custard. The last order of business is to wandlessly cast a mild stasis charm over the finished tarts. The remaining handful of strawberries is covered and put in the refrigerator for another day.
Satisfaction washes over Harry in a gentle wave as he looks at the tray of finished desserts. Draco was right; the strawberries were delicious this year. His small test batch of tarts earlier in the afternoon was perfect, so he is certain their friends will be pleased.
It isn’t long before Draco returns from their bedroom donned in casual wear, joining him in the living room with only a minute to spare. He shoots Harry a smile and wraps an arm around his back, settling his hand along the curve of Harry’s waist.
At precisely 6pm, their friends tumble out of the Floo one after another. Greetings and pleasantries are exchanged with every new arrival, and it isn’t long before the dusty and hidden corners of Grimmauld Place are again filled with the tinkling of porcelain accompanied by the swell of conversation and laughter as they all settle down in the familiar presence of one another. The previously designated Hogwarts house lines had blurred together long ago until one day, they had disappeared completely.
Harry dutifully plays his part as host, making fresh pots of tea and sending out other snacks he had bought days prior for the occasion. He carries out a tray with yet another round of tea and the long-awaited strawberry custard tarts, the latter of which are devoured within minutes. The chatter from his friends comes to a near standstill as they indulge and in between bites, give their compliments to Harry. As far as he can tell, not a crumb is left in sight, save for a bite that Luna insists she is leaving for some strangely named creature or another. Even Pansy pays him heartfelt praise.
Much to Ron’s dismay, no second helpings are available, and Harry promises to make him a special tray the following weekend once he makes another trip to the garden. He's always happy to whip up a batch of something for their frequent gatherings and lunch or dinner dates. Whether it's at Grimmauld Place, an afternoon or dinner at the Burrow, or occasionally the Manor when Narcissa summons both he and Draco for their weekly visit.
And so this evening’s gathering passes by comfortably, with friendly bickering and multiple conversations bleeding into one another. A bit later into the night, Hermione ends up wrangling Theo into a discussion about some up-and-coming law or cause she is passionate about, resulting in some of the others chiming in with their opinions. Playful banter and tea flow freely amongst them.
It’s around the point where Pansy goes off on a tangent that Harry’s mind wanders. Unsurprisingly, his thoughts turn to baking on the heels of today’s successful recipe. A multitude of them whirr around his thoughts, and he attempts to settle on one in preparation for next weekend’s experiment. A pineapple upside-down cake sounds decadent. Or maybe a Tarte Tatin as an early treat for Draco’s twenty-ninth birthday?
The man in question lightly squeezes Harry’s upper thigh and whispers his name, bringing Harry’s attention back to the present. Harry turns to see Draco smiling fondly with the barest hint of exasperation across his features. Harry tends to get lost in his thoughts, and Draco has become attuned to the shift in his demeanour over the years.
He leans in and kisses Harry on the lips ever-so-softly. Harry instinctively smiles into it, leaning closer. Love and affection radiate outwardly for the man pressed against him. Harry raises a hand to cup Draco’s jaw, his thumb brushing softly against Draco’s cheek. The chorus of familiar voices quickly fades into the background. Draco’s free hand slides into Harry’s hair before coming to a rest along the nape of his neck. It’s a similar gesture to their heated moment in the kitchen some hours before. Harry stifles a groan.
Draco swipes his tongue along Harry’s upper lip in tandem with a firmer squeeze of Harry’s thigh. Draco’s lips taste like something distinctly him (a flavour Harry will never get enough of), Earl Grey, and the sweetest trace of strawberries.
Blaise hoots and whistles in the background as Harry mimics Draco, sweeping his tongue along the seam and expanse of Draco’s lips. He adds a nip in there for good measure. With his free hand, Harry sends a rude gesture in Blaise’s general direction. It is on the trail end of Blaise’s responding laughter that their heated kiss breaks apart.
Later that night after their friends have departed, Harry keeps his promise.