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i. A blueberry and white chocolate muffin
“Where’d you get that?” asks Harry, referring to the muffin in front of Hermione. He takes his usual seat beside her, opposite Ron, and immediately starts digging into his breakfast. “I thought they only served muffins on Fridays.”
“It’s … uh,” she’s staring at it, as if willing the muffin itself to explain its own origins.
“It was Malfoy,” Ron says, also staring at the muffin, his tone incredulous. “He just — gave it to her!”
“Draco Malfoy gave Hermione a muffin?” Harry laughs. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione hums. She lifts it, ignoring Ron’s gasp of horror. “It does look quite appetising.”
“No, don’t — !”
But it’s too late for Ron’s protests; Hermione’s already mid-bite. And the muffin must taste just as exquisite as it looks, if her moan of pure delight is anything to go by. Ron’s face is beet red, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Hermione.
“Mmm. Blueberry and white chocolate.”
“And poison!” Ron hisses.
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. He escaped a near life sentence in Azkaban by the skin of his teeth. I highly doubt he would attempt to poison me via muffin on the first day of term.”
Ron shakes his head like he still can’t believe it. Then, once he’s seemingly satisfied that his girlfriend hasn’t been fatally poisoned by Draco Malfoy’s blueberry and white chocolate muffin, he grumbles, “Let me try it, then.”
Hermione eyes it possessively, taking another, rather large, bite, before reluctantly offering Ron a small piece.
Harry watches Ron carefully as he chews, watches as his expression morphs from one of disbelief to pure, unadulterated bliss. “Bloody hell.”
Harry frowns. It can’t be that good. “Can I try?”
Hermione sighs, begrudgingly offering him his own small piece and — oh. Oh, it is delicious. It’s still warm so it must have been freshly baked, and it’s so creamy inside, it melts in his mouth, and when Harry swallows it down he immediately craves more.
Malfoy can bake? Since when, and how, and why?
He briefly scans the dining hall, but the familiar head of white-blond hair is nowhere to be found. Did Malfoy really just show up, offer Hermione an unbelievably delicious muffin, and then swiftly leave? Curiosity peaked, Harry makes a quick mental note:
Figure out what Malfoy’s up to (again).
ii. Apple Pie
Judging by the grim expression on Ron’s face, he isn’t a fan of the apple pie in front of him.
It looks perfect, almost comically so — as if it’s been carved out of a picturesque painting, or an animated film. And it tastes even better than it looks, Harry must say. According to Ron, Malfoy had wordlessly handed it over before he bolted back out of the dining hall, almost colliding with a fourth year in his haste to leave.
“It’s gotta be laced with something. I know it this time.”
“Oh, grow up, Ronald,” Hermione sighs. Then, she’s licking her lips in anticipation, and nabbing herself a slice (because, apparently, Malfoy had cut it into even slices for him. What is going on).
“Un believable,” Ron mutters. Then, through his mouthful of pie a few minutes later, “bloody hell, when and where did Malfoy learn to cook?”
“Bake,” Hermione corrects, still savouring her own slice.
According to Pansy Parkinson — the darling who tried to push him into the arms of the Dark Lord last year, the one and only — Malfoy had acquired his passion for baking over the summer, just after his trial. He started learning to pass the time and decided to forego the use of magic in his baking altogether, opting for muggle — muggle! — tools and appliances and following muggle recipes. “You’ve got to try his muffins, they’re perfect!” Parkinson had gushed, following it all up with a dreamy sigh and a faraway look.
Hermione’s blueberry and white chocolate muffin and Ron’s apple pie were only the beginning, as the rest of the term would come to prove.
iii. Macarons
Neville is lounging on one of the big red sofas when Harry enters the eighth year common room. On his lap is a plateful of delicately crafted macarons, each one a different colour of the rainbow.
“Let me guess,” Harry sighs, plopping down beside him, eyeing the plate. “Malfoy?”
“ … Yeah,” Neville frowns. “He just came over and gave ‘em to me, didn’t even say anythin’,” he shakes his head. “How’d you know?”
Harry narrows his eyes, searching the common room as if expecting Malfoy to show himself at any moment. “He’s been doing that. He gave Hermione a muffin at the start of term, and Ron got an apple pie a couple weeks ago.”
Neville hums. “Quite nice of him, that. What’d he make you?”
Harry tries not to scowl too openly. “Nothing,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Which is quite hilarious, considering I’m the one who showed up to his bloody trial — not Hermione or Ron — and I’m the one who spoke in his defence when I really didn’t have to, and — ”
Neville, of course, isn’t listening. He’s got a whole macaron in his mouth — the pink one — and he’s practically gone cross-eyed. “Oh, Harry, these are elite. You’ve gotta try one!”
Merlin help him. (He tries the yellow macaron. Neville’s right; they’re exquisite).
iv. Ginger snaps
Harry has loads of questions, and very little answers. One thing, however, is abundantly clear: Draco Malfoy is avoiding him.
Even in the classes they share, he’ll find ways to make Harry feel as though he’s invisible. Utterly irrelevant. When they do make eye contact, it’s fleeting, always broken by Malfoy. Harry’s efforts to corner him, to try and talk to him — they’re all fruitless.
It’s unnerving, especially since Malfoy’s mouthwatering baked goods seem to follow him everywhere now.
Seamus and Dean, digging into Malfoy’s three-tier chocolate cake. Parvati’s millionaire shortbreads that she outright refused to share with anyone else, and Padma’s banana muffin that she, too, would not share. Hannah Abbott’s coffee cupcakes and Susan Bones’ red velvet ones. Not to mention McGonagall — McGonagall, for Merlin’s sake — snacking on Malfoy’s double chocolate chip cookies during Transfiguration the other day. And Madam Pomfrey, gushing on and on about Malfoy’s madeira loaf cake; the lemon drizzle was apparently to die for. It’s all anyone wants to talk about anymore; in class, in the library, in the common room, in the halls.
“He gave me some cookies just the other day. Ginger snaps,” Luna informed him one evening, perfectly casual, as if Harry's head wasn’t about to explode all over her. “It was very sweet of him. They were quite delicious.”
“I’m sure they were,” Harry seethed, his ears heating up.
“You alright, mate?”
“I’m fine, Neville.”
Nope. Not fine. Where are Harry’s ginger snaps? Harry’s double chocolate chip cookies and loaf cakes and muffins and pies? Harry’s bloody delicious macarons? Where are they? What is Malfoy playing at?
Hermione assures him that he isn’t the only one who has yet to receive one of Malfoy’s delicacies. She’s right, of course — Ginny still hasn’t, for example. Ron just questions why he cares so bloody much. And sure, yeah, fair enough, maybe he shouldn’t care so much. He can just make his own bloody cakes and treats, he doesn’t need Malfoy’s. It’s just a matter of principle, is all. Why exclude Harry, of all people?
Ginny is approaching their table, still in her Quidditch uniform. She’s pink-cheeked, giddy smile on her face, and she’s holding a plateful of brownies.
For fuck’s sake.
v. Lemon crème brûlée, a bloody carrot cake, strawberry fucking meringues — Merlin, does it end?
Malfoy gave Hagrid a banoffee pie. For some reason, that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
It’s been 2 and a half long months of watching the Hogwarts student body — okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, it’s mostly eighth years and a handful of the staff, but still — feast all too eagerly on Malfoy’s treats. And Harry has had enough.
Ginny’s brownies were criminally good. So was the lemon crème brûlée Malfoy made for Neville — upon request! Malfoy’s taking requests now, as if he’s established his own little fucking Hogwarts bakery. Except it can’t be categorised as a business because he isn’t charging anyone a fee. Hermione requested a carrot cake just the other day, and mere hours later Malfoy was shyly handing it over. Then he was off again, disappearing the way he always does after he bestows someone with a sinfully tasty treat.
And, Merlin’s beard, Hagrid’s banoffee pie — chef’s kiss. Harry is so pissed off he can’t fucking see straight.
In his dorm that evening, Harry fishes out his map, all too eager to find Malfoy. He hasn’t got a plan; he has no idea what he’ll say, if he finally manages to corner the little git. He just knows he needs to give him a piece of his mind. He’ll drag him out of his bloody bed if he has to —
Aha! He’s in the library.
He power walks there, and — as if to rub salt in the wound — has to pass by an obnoxious seventh-year couple feasting on some strawberry meringues. The anger bubbling within only intensifies.
Malfoy is sitting cross legged on his chair, in a very far corner of the library. There aren’t many people around, understandably so given that it’s a Friday evening. Malfoy’s eyes are glued to the textbook(s) on his desk. He’s writing — McGonagall’s Transfiguration essay, presumably — his quill moving fluidly across the page. He’s so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t see or hear Harry’s determined footsteps as he approaches him.
“Malfoy.”
Malfoy jumps, quill flying. “Salazar!” he gasps, clutches a hand to his chest. His eyes widen when he looks up at Harry, and his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something else but can’t figure out what.
Then, all at once, he starts to frantically gather together his things — shuts his textbooks, picks his quill up from where he dropped it —
“Nope! No. You’re staying right where you are.”
“I — ”
“Ah ah! Shush. Sit down, Malfoy.”
As if shocked into obedience, Malfoy sits right back down, eyes wide and unblinking. “What is … ?”
Harry glares at him. He plants his palms down on the desk, leans down, all up in Malfoy’s personal space, as if they’re at the Ministry right now and not the library, as if he’s interrogating Malfoy regarding a very serious criminal offence and not confronting him about his hurt feelings over Malfoy’s apparent refusal to bake him anything when he insists upon doing so for everybody else.
“Why haven’t you baked me anything?”
Malfoy stiffens. Blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The muffins! The pies! The — the bloody cookies, everything. Where are mine?”
Malfoy is staring at him. He looks, quite frankly, absolutely terrified. “Would … would you like to request anything in partic — ”
“No.” Harry huffs, well aware of how petulant he sounds. “I don’t need your stupid pity treat. I just wanna know why you’ve given everyone under the sun something except me. You baked McGonagall cookies! And Hagrid and —“
“I’m sorry!” Malfoy suddenly bursts out, his anger mirroring Harry’s. “I just — I didn't know what to bake you! I wanted to, of course, I didn’t realise it upset you so much that I — ” he shakes his head, as if not quite believing that this is a real conversation. That makes two of them. He adds, voice softer this time, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just … I couldn’t figure it out. What to … bake for you.”
Something magically clicks into place in Harry’s head. Malfoy had put so much thought into what to bake for Harry, that he’d ended up procrastinating and not baking him anything at all. After a long pause, he steps back.
“Treacle tart is my favourite dessert,” he informs him. “I’m a big fan of cheesecake. And anything with chocolate in it.”
Malfoy is nodding. “Right. Yes.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“Alright.”
“ … ”
“ … ”
“I … better get on with this essay — ”
“Right, yeah. I’ll be off then.”
Harry’s dreams that night are filled with Malfoy; Malfoy in an apron, Malfoy cheffing it up in a muggle kitchen, Malfoy baking him his very own treacle tart, Malfoy approaching him with a cake or a muffin or a plateful of cookies or cupcakes, specifically for him and no one else. He wakes up with his mouth watering.
vi. Pistachio cheesecake
“You seriously aren’t gonna share? Hermione! He won’t bloody share!”
“Sod off, Ron.”
It’s a right beauty. Light green, sprinkled all over with pistachios and decorated with heart-shaped strawberries. The first bite is so heavenly that Harry’s convinced he’s died for a third time.
Malfoy waited a week after their conversation at the library to bestow him with the best cheesecake he’s ever had. In the meantime, Ron’s request for tiramisu was filled and Hermone’s sudden craving for pain au chocolat was satisfied. And just when Harry began to begrudgingly accept that he was forever doomed to live a life devoid of Malfoy’s specially-dedicated treats, a generously sized pistachio cheesecake was thrust into his hands after Charms, before a red-faced and silent Malfoy was quickly rushing away.
Harry took it to the common room straight away, ignoring everyone’s pleas for a piece. This was his cake. They’ve had their turn and now it’s Harry’s time to shine.
vii. Chocolate fondant
“I think I’ve figured it out,” Ron pipes up out of the blue. They’re both in Harry’s dorm, and he’s got a mouthful of one of Malfoy’s Hogwarts-wide famous muffins (the incredibly popular blueberry and white chocolate one, though Harry prefers the apple and cinnamon one now). “Why Malfoy’s so into baking everyone stuff now.”
“Yeah?” says Harry distractedly. He’s watching Malfoy’s name on the map, steadily slithering its way down toward the common room … past its doors … it lingers in place for a little bit.
“Yep,” Ron continues, “He just wants to fatten everyone else up to make himself look more fit in comparison.”
Harry snorts. “What?”
“Think about it! He’s still the same bony git. But I’ve gained at least 5 pounds since he started stuffing me with his bloody brilliant food. It’s all a part of his Slytherin cunning — ”
Harry hums again, though he isn’t really listening. Malfoy leaves the common room, but only briefly. He’s inside his own dorm for a sum total of 30 seconds. Then, he’s back in the common room. Harry itches to leave his dorm and go down there. He still hasn’t thanked him for the life-changing cheesecake, never got the chance. Maybe now’s a good time.
“ — apparently he’s even got a whole muggle kitchen set up in his dorm, why else would Draco Malfoy be putting in so much effort to — mate, where are you going?”
Harry answers, “Malfoy,” as if that’s a sufficient enough explanation.
Malfoy’s sitting on one of the sofas. He’s holding a plate of something; something chocolatey. Hope bubbles in Harry’s chest.
“Hi — ”
Malfoy jumps, twisting to face him. He looks down at the plate he’s holding, then back up at Harry’s face, and — in one single breath, “Thisisforyou.”
This time, when Harry takes the plate from him, Malfoy doesn’t instantly excuse himself. He sticks around, watching as Harry eagerly takes a bite.
“It’s chocolate fondant,” he says quietly, obnoxiously over-pronouncing the word fondant in what Harry assumes is French.
He stays long enough to hear Harry’s involuntary groan and his loud mmmm yes as he takes bite after bite. He has a nervous energy about him, watching him closely as he chews.
“Do you — ” his voice cracks, and his face flushes deeper. He clears his throat. “Do you like it?”
Harry frowns. ‘Like’ it? Does he bloody like it? What kind of question is that? “Uh … Yes. It’s fucking amazing, Malfoy, all of it is.”
Malfoy seems to light up, and it brings Harry an inexplicable amount of joy. “Really? The, uh. The cheesecake, too? I know I should’ve asked if you liked pistachios first, it just — I thought maybe you didn’t — ”
“It was so fucking good,” Harry practically gushes, incredibly pleased at the relief and joy on Malfoy’s face. “Fuck — this cake is so good I could kiss you right now.”
Malfoy stiffens; it’s subtle but Harry notices it. He realises what he’s just said a moment too late, and Malfoy’s cheeks are pink and he’s so — he’s so —
“I mean. Obviously not. I won’t kiss you.”
“Oh.”
“Wait, no — I didn’t mean — it’s not that you’re unkissable or anything —“
“O…kay.”
“— I just mean it as a figure of speech, as in — you know — ”
“Yes, yes,” Malfoy cuts him off, sounding slightly deflated. “I know. Don’t worry.”
Harry stuffs a bit more of the chocolate fondant into his mouth, focusing solely on its heavenly taste and pointedly ignoring how wildly his heart is racing at the mere idea of kissing Malfoy.
viii. Treacle tart
Malfoy makes him a treacle tart a week before the end of term. It almost brings tears to Harry’s eyes, how utterly perfect it is.
Malfoy sticks around again. They share the tart; they talk, too. Harry learns that Malfoy started baking to relieve stress, to curb his anxiety. Harry thinks back to life with the Dursley’s, and how making them food was nothing but stress and anxiety. He supposes it’s completely different for Malfoy, who found solace in it instead of dread.
Somewhere in the middle of Malfoy’s lengthy rambling about good food being the most tried and trusted way of reaching a person’s heart, Harry puts two and two together and comes to the conclusion that this must be Malfoy’s weird little way of making amends with everyone he’s hurt.
And in the subtlest of ways, it appears to be working – Harry’s certain that if he were to ask every single eighth year what comes to mind now when they think of Draco Malfoy, their answers would invoke his undeniable talent for baking, as opposed to his unfortunate involvement on the wrong side during the war. All in all, quite a successful rebrand.
One could interpret it all as nefarious and manipulative — Malfoy is, after all, a Slytherin through and through — but Harry still remembers the trials, how beaten down and defeated Malfoy had looked. A mere shell of the boy he once was; not a thought behind his eyes. He can understand how and why he turned to the kitchen in a bid to pass the time after being put on house arrest until he could return to Hogwarts for his eighth year. It must have felt freeing, to create things from scratch, delicious things that he could enjoy for himself or, as he’s indeed been doing, offer to others.
After causing so much pain, being forced to hurt people, it must feel quite nice, to be able to offer them something that does the complete opposite. Something that brings them joy, makes them happy.
Now, as he watches Malfoy reach for another small slice of treacle tart, still rambling — this time about how baking is actually not difficult at all, even without any magic, because muggles have all of these brilliant, if I do say so myself, tools that facilitate the process and — he feels an overwhelming urge to hug him close. He doesn’t because that would be insane and uncomfortable and quite rude given that Malfoy is mid-sentence.
He thinks about it, though. For the rest of their conversation, and for the rest of the day.
ix. Yule log
On the last day of term, Malfoy bakes a massive chocolate yule log.
It’s on the table in the middle of the eighth year common room, with a note attached that reads: For everyone to enjoy. Merry Christmas! No name is signed, but everyone knows it’s Malfoy.
There are scuffles about who gets the biggest piece, and complaints about the person doing the cutting being a bit too stingy with everyone’s slices. All in all, however, everyone enjoys themselves, any irritation dissipating the moment they take their first bites.
Harry finds Malfoy in his dorm. He looks forward to their chats now, especially since Malfoy’s opened up more and more.
Malfoy lets him in, and wow – Ron was right about the muggle kitchen inside his room. It’s quite small, but practical. It looks messy too, in a way that shows how frequently it’s used. And – Merlin’s beard, it smells so good in Malfoy’s room. Harry’s nostrils flare, and just like that, he’s bloody starving.
“So that’s where all the magic happens, eh?” Harry grins, pointing vaguely in the direction of the tiny kitchen.
Malfoy rolls his eyes, nods. He sits on the edge of his freshly-made bed, and answers in the affirmative when Harry asks him if he’ll be going back home for Christmas. He looks so … what’s the bloody word … soft. Soft hair and soft skin and soft voice and —
Harry has wanted to hold him – to kiss him – for longer than he’s willing to admit. And it’s the last day of term, and he’s going home to the Weasley’s for Christmas, and who knows if he’ll ever have the balls to do this ever again, and he just wants –
Malfoy’s mouth tastes just as sweet as his treats do, and as Harry kisses him, he realises that this is how it’s supposed to feel – kissing. Kissing Cho, kissing Ginny; they weren’t bad kisses, not by any stretch, but this … this feels like coming home, like finally finding shelter after being drenched in the rain. Like a hot shower after a long day. Like the warmth of a fireplace. Like digging into the sweetest, most mouthwatering piece of cake in existence.
“Uh,” is the first thing Malfoy says once they’ve both pulled away a few moments later, eyes wide and chests heaving.
“Um,” is Harry’s clever response.
Then, at the exact same time – “Shit, I’m so sorry, Malfoy, that was – ” and – “Did you really mean that – ?”
“What?”
“What?”
“You go first.”
“No, you go first.”
“Fine! I said I’m sorry, Malfoy, I shouldn’t have done that, I just … ”
Malfoy blinks, steps back. “So you … didn’t mean it, then.”
“What? No, I did. I mean – fuck. I meant it, but I just … ”
Malfoy nods slowly, steps forward again. Almost nose to nose. Sweet breath on Harry’s lips. “You meant it.”
Harry nods, breathes, “I did, yeah.”
“So do it again,” Malfoy says, breathless.
And Harry does it again.
x. Pancakes
He thinks about Malfoy all Christmas. What is he doing, right now, at this very second? What did he bake today? Has he learned any new recipes? When they all come back for the new term, will Malfoy keep offering everyone his baked goods? Will he come back full of new ideas of what to bake? And what are they now, Harry and Malfoy? They’ve snogged a little bit, yeah, but what does that mean? What does that make them? Is it weird that he’s still calling him Malfoy, should he start calling him Draco instead?
Harry is giddy with excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. He’s practically bouncing up and down in his seat, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s bemused stares.
“What is up with you?” asks Ron.
“Oh, you know,” he shrugs.
“No,” Hermione hisses. “We don’t know. Enlighten us, please.”
“Ya know,” he repeats. “Malfoy,” his voice sounds wistful and dreamy in his own ears, and at Ron’s indignant splutter and Hermione’s raised eyebrow, he quickly adds, “You think he’s got some new recipes up his sleeve?”
Hermione’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Yes. I’m sure he does.”
“Merlin,” Ron practically moans, heaving a wistful sigh of his own. “Don’t tell mum, but I’ve been dreaming of that git’s trifle all bloody Christmas.”
Harry nods in understanding. “Same here,” he agrees, because it’s true. He’s also been dreaming of Malfoy’s lips against his, of how sweet his mouth tastes, of how lovely he smells all the time. Ron doesn’t need to know all of that, though.
Hermione shakes her head at both of them. “Well, I just hope he doesn’t get too in over his head. He received so many requests last term it was a miracle he was able to keep up. He needs time to finish his school work, too.”
Harry frowns, because Hermione’s got a point. He makes a mental note to check in on Malfoy when he sees him, and make sure he doesn’t do himself in trying to please everybody else.
All of that flies out the window the moment they enter the common room, and the distinct smell of pancakes wafting through the air drifts into his nostrils. He feels like a dog as he sniffs the air, practically floating towards the source of the smell —
Malfoy’s dorm room, of course. He’d told Harry he’d be returning earlier than the other students, and here he is, already hard at work in his own little kitchen. Harry’s heart does several flips inside his chest. He stands there, just outside Draco’s room, grinning like a fool. Then, he knocks.
A tentative, “yes?”
“It’s me, Harry.”
“Oh, come in!”
Malfoy’s wearing an apron, and it shouldn’t be so hilarious but, fuck, it is hilarious and suddenly Harry can’t stop laughing. Malfoy glares menacingly at him, one hand rested on his hip. Harry is then reminded of Molly, which only makes him laugh harder.
“Are you done?” Malfoy drawls, face flushed pink.
“Yeah, yes — ” he catches his breath. “Sorry, sorry.”
Malfoy huffs, spinning on his heels so that his back is to Harry again. He flips the pan, what looks like a perfectly golden pancake landing back onto the dark surface neatly. He makes it look so easy.
“Who are the pancakes for?” asks Harry, secretly hoping that —
“For you, for … ” he falters, and Harry wishes he could see his face right now. “For us,” he continues, quieter. Harry’s heart sings.
“I’d like that,” he says. Smiles. “I’d like that a lot.”
The pancakes are perfect, of course. They taste better than they look. Malfoy has, once again, outdone himself.
For a moment, Harry allows himself to cherish, to savour the fact that they’re here — alone, together, enjoying something that Malfoy has made, for them and for them only.
“Can I kiss you again?” it comes out in a choked garble, too sudden and barely coherent.
Malfoy swallows his mouthful, blinks. “Pardon?”
“Can I … uh,” he can feel his pulse in his stomach, and it’s weird, and Malfoy’s got a bit of whipped cream on his chin, and he just wants to bloody kiss him again, is that so much to ask? Surely not. “Can I kiss you?” He says it slower this time, and this time Malfoy definitely understands.
He doesn’t verbalise his approval — instead, Malfoy grins and pulls Harry in with a fistful of his shirt, and plants one on him. It’s even better than the first time, and Harry is certain he never wants to kiss anyone else ever again.
It becomes a regular thing; the kissing. They hold hands, too. And hug, and cuddle, and … other things. And Malfoy — no, Draco — eventually stops baking with other people in mind, and starts baking with himself and Harry in mind. And, hey, Harry isn’t a total dick; he’s generous, and he’ll occasionally share with others.
(The treats. He’ll occasionally share the treats. Not Draco; he doesn’t share Draco).