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The sunlight flooding the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was surprisingly insistent and intrusive. It seeped into every crack, putting every speck of dust on display, though each speck promptly vanished under the influence of numerous Cleaning Charms. In this shining realm of perfect order, which resembled an alchemist's laboratory more than a place for cooking, Draco Malfoy was suffering a crushing defeat.
And his enemy was not Potter (as was usually the case), nor some Dark Lord, but the most mundane, vile, and treacherous of foes... breakfast.
He was wearing that grey "Kensington Tube" t-shirt that smelled like Harry—of soap, fresh air, and something elusive that was simply him. And an utterly ridiculous, humiliating checkered apron, which in another life he would have rather died than put on. But this life was different. And in this life, he, Draco Malfoy, heir to the most ancient of houses, was standing in a Muggle kitchen trying to work magic over a frying pan because his foolish, reckless, heroic boyfriend had nearly caught a curse on a raid yesterday and damn well deserved a proper breakfast in bed.
The problem was that cooking, especially Muggle cooking, refused to obey his will. The eggs, whipped by his wand to a perfect, airy froth, suddenly decided to become a rubber rag in the pan. The bacon, sliced by a spell with microscopic precision, burned on one edge and remained raw on the other.
"Furnunculus," he muttered, poking his wand at the pan, but instead of turning into a flambé, the omelette merely emitted a sad bubble.
He was furious. Quietly, in a Malfoy-ish, venomous way. It was stupid, irrational, and beneath his dignity. With one elegant flick of his wand, he could have summoned a luxurious breakfast from Le De Paris or at least from Nocturne Alley. But no. He wanted to do it himself. With his own hands. Without magic. As if by this he could erase all those years when he had been a caustic rival and then a frightened boy on the wrong side of the war. As if with burnt bacon he could say what was sometimes so hard to say out loud.
At that moment, he heard footsteps. Light, uncertain, sleepy. Draco's heart began to beat against his ribs with unnatural loudness. He froze, pretending to be fully concentrated on his culinary fiasco, but his entire being was attuned to the person approaching him from behind.
And then – warmth. Warm arms wrapped around his waist, clasping over his stomach. A head buried itself between his shoulder blades. Draco felt all the muscles in his back relax involuntarily, treacherously responding to that touch.
"Planning a murder?" Harry's voice was husky with sleep, and his breath burned Draco's skin on the back of his neck. "Or is this a new lethal recipe?"
An old habit – to snap back, to defend himself with sarcasm – kicked in instantly.
"Potter, if you've come here to criticize..." he began, trying to make his voice sound cold and haughty. But it was hard when your whole body was trembling from his simple touch.
"I came because it smelled of burning. Thought you'd finally decided to set my kitchen on fire on principle."
Harry's voice was full of such lazy, deep tenderness that it took Draco's breath away. He allowed himself to lean his head back onto that reliable shoulder behind him. And then Harry did it. He gently pushed aside the silver strands and pressed his lips to Draco's neck. The kiss wasn't just a kiss. It was a slow, deliberate press, full of such silent understanding that the tips of Draco's fingers went cold. It was a kiss that said: I know what you're trying to do. And I treasure it more than any perfect breakfast.
All the rage, all the irritation vanished as if they had never been. All that remained was the vulnerability he allowed only one person on the entire planet to see.
"I can't get it right," he muttered, and his voice sounded almost like a whine. He hated it. But this was Harry. With Harry, it was... allowed.
"It's okay," Harry smiled, and Draco felt the movement of his lips against his skin. "I love your burnt omelettes anyway. They're... exclusive."
"Idiot," Draco exhaled, but his hand reached for Harry's on its own, squeezing his fingers, pressing his palm even tighter against himself, as if afraid he would pull away.
They stood like that for a few moments, bathed in sunlight, in the aroma of smoke and the coffee Draco had somehow managed to brew perfectly.
"Step back, Potter," Draco finally said, but without the former bite. "You're distracting me. I must enact vengeance upon this... eggy mishap."
Harry laughed, that loud, infectious laugh that always made Draco hide a smile. But he didn't step back. Instead, he let go to move around and lean against the kitchen counter nearby, watching Draco with an expression of such tenderness and amusement that Draco wanted to either kiss him or throw the spatula at him. In the end, he did neither, merely blushed and stared at the frying pan with renewed stubbornness.
"Give it here," Harry said softly, pulling his wand from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. "Tergeo."
A neat spell lifted the burnt pancake and gently deposited it into the bin.
"Hey!" Draco protested. "That was my masterpiece!"
"A masterpiece that could poison a mountain troll," Harry retorted. "Watch and learn, Malfoy."
He took a new egg (a Muggle one, bought to satisfy Draco's desire for "authenticity") and with one deft motion cracked it against the edge of the pan. The yolk fell out perfectly intact. He did the same with a second one. Then he took a fork (not a wand!) and carefully stirred, salted, and peppered.
Draco watched, mesmerized. This wasn't magic. This was... skill. Dexterity, confidence that came only with practice. The very same qualities Harry had in a fight, he applied in the kitchen with the same calm.
"How do you do that?" Draco couldn't hold back.
Harry shrugged, flipping the bacon.
"Practice. Aunt Petunia thought idleness was the root of all evil. I had plenty of practice."
He said it without a trace of resentment, simply as a statement of fact. And for some reason, that touched Draco the most. All those years he had envied Harry, his fame, his skill on a broomstick, his friends. And it turned out Harry had had to wash dishes and cook breakfast for a family that hated him.
Without thinking, driven by a sudden impulse, Draco stepped forward, moved Harry's hand away from the pan, and pulled him close. He looked at him – at his tousled hair, at his green eyes, squinting without glasses, at the thin scar on his forehead.
"What?" Harry asked in surprise, but his eyes were already sparkling with amusement.
"Shut up, Potter," Draco whispered and kissed him.
This wasn't a gentle kiss like a minute ago. This was a kiss full of everything he couldn't put into words: the frustration at his own failure, gratitude, and that strange, sharp pang of pity he felt upon realizing his hero had such an unhappy childhood. It was a kiss that said: I'm here. And I'll make you burnt breakfasts until I learn to make perfect ones. Or until you stop me.
When they finally broke apart, it no longer smelled of burning, but of perfectly fried bacon.
"Oh, bugger," Harry whispered, his eyes widening. "The omelette!"
He spun around sharply towards the stove, but it was too late. A new eggy pancake was smoking in the pan, even darker and more hopeless than the previous one.
A second of silence followed. And then Draco laughed. It was a rare, genuine, carefree laugh that Harry deserved more than anything in the world.
"Well then," he said, still laughing. "Now you're to blame, too. We're doomed to starve, and it will be due to our undivided love."
Harry snorted, turning off the hob.
"Undivided?" He put his arm around Draco's shoulders and pulled him close. "We almost set the kitchen on fire just now due to overly divided feelings. Idiot."
"You started it," Draco countered, already leaning into him.
"Fine," Harry sighed, kissing his temple. "I admit defeat. I'll call a house-elf."
"Just not Dobby," Draco instantly objected, grimacing. "He still looks at me like I'm about to put a pair of lethally cursed socks on you."
Harry laughed again.
"Kreacher then. Though he's a grump too."
A few minutes later, two perfect omelettes, a plate of crispy bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice stood on the table. They ate, their legs tangled together under the table. The sunlight grew even brighter.
"You know what?" Harry said, finishing the last bite. "Next time, just wake me up. We'll cook together."
Draco looked up at him, and the familiar, arrogant smirk played at the corners of his lips. But there was something warm in his eyes.
"And deprive myself of the spectacle of the Great Harry Potter, defeated by a Muggle breakfast? Not a chance, Potter. It's even better than your ridiculous scars."
"Malfoy," Harry simply said, and that one word, spoken with an abyss of tenderness and mockery, was enough.
And Draco realized that perhaps he had achieved his goal after all. He had made Harry the best breakfast. It just wasn't an omelette.