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Harry walks into the burrow, spots Malfoy chatting with Ron in the corner over spiked eggnog, and walks right back out into the blizzard.
“Harry!” he hears behind him. “You made it!”
That would be Ginny. Fuck.
He stops and turns back around. “I just forgot something. Outside. In the snow. I should—”
Ginny pulls him inside and drags him by the arm to the kitchen, where Molly waits with her arms crossed. “Harry! Thank goodness you’re here!”
Harry stands on the threshold of the kitchen, arms stiff by his sides. “Er, yeah, I’m here,” he says. He glances into the corner where Malfoy had been, but he’s gone.
Harry glares at Ron, who just grins at him. The wanker. Ever since Ron had befriended Malfoy when they’d been forced to work together at St Mungo’s, he’s made it a point to bring the poncy arsehole around as often as he can to torture Harry.
This is the first time he’s invited Malfoy to the Burrow for Christmas Eve, though.
Ron winks at Harry. Harry flips him off.
“Harry, dear, it’s your turn to make the dessert for Christmas this year, and Draco is going to help. Hop to it!”
“Why do you need both of us? Can’t I do it alone?”
Malfoy’s chin hooks over his shoulder and his deep voice is directly in Harry’s ear. “You know this kitchen better than I do, and I’m a better baker, of course,” he says.
Harry shivers. He hates Malfoy’s voice. He especially hates it directly in his ear. He also hates how it makes his cock harden instantly in his pants.
“It’s settled then! Harry and Draco will make dessert,” says Molly before skipping away from the kitchen.
Harry watches Draco flip through a thick tome of recipes while he gathers ingredients. Bowls and measuring cups land ont he countertop in front of him, canisters of flour and sugar and a bin of fruit beside them. With little preparation, he begins haphazardly measuring ingredients and dumping them in the bowls, setting the sugar and eggs to whisk.
“What are you doing, Potter? We haven’t even found the right recipe yet!” Malfoy drops the book on the floor and tries to grab the whisk, but Harry lifts it high over his head with a flick of his wand. “You’re going to ruin it!”
“We don’t need a recipe, Malfoy. It’s a cake, not a potion.”
Malfoy’s eyes widen in horror. “No recipe? Are you mad?”
Malfoy dives for the mixing bowl that the flour sifts itself into. His foot catches on the book he’d dropped and the bowl tips, flinging flour everywhere. The air is filled with a thick cloud of flour.
Harry vanishes the flour cloud and scowls at Malfoy. “You’re making a mess of everything!”
“Well you are trying to bake without a recipe! Baking is a science! It requires precision!”
Harry shoves the half-empty flour bowl at Malfoy. “Fine, then you do the measuring, you know-it-all.”
Malfoy takes the offered bowl, his chin jutting out in defiance, and turns back to the counter. The book he’d dropped lifts off the floor and lands beside him, open to the correct page. He begins sifting the flour again in exact measurements.
Harry chops the fruit, muttering under his breath.
An hour later, Harry watches the last few minutes of their timer tick down. Malfoy sits beside him, his knee bouncing.
He’s sitting too close, like he always does. Their thighs press together. Their shoulders are trying to occupy the same space.
Harry glances at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye and snorts. He still has a splotch of flour across his cheek. It looks as though he’d tried to wipe it away at some point and only succeeded in smearing it further into his hair.
The timer goes off, and they both leap up at the same time to grab the loaf from the oven. Malfoy sticks his foot under Harry’s, sending him sprawling on the floor.
Harry stands back up and brushes flour off his knees, trying not to laugh aloud at the way Malfoy cackles when he reaches the oven first.
After dinner—during which Malfoy made sure to sit as close to Harry as possible without making it difficult to move his arm to eat—Harry glares at Ron across the table again. Ron only wiggles his eyebrows at him.
Molly returns to the dining table with the dessert. It looks…passable. The cake is lumpy, the icing uneven, and it has a bit too much fruit on top of it. He feels Malfoy stiffen beside him.
The cake is cut, and little plates place themselves in front of each person at the table.
Harry holds his breath as everyone takes their first bites.
“Merlin, that’s good,” says Ron, his mouth full of cake.
“Is it?” says Harry. He winces when he feels a sharp elbow in his side.
“Of course it’s perfect, I made it,” says Malfoy.
Harry turns to him to argue, but finds Malfoy already looking at him, pressing his lips together in a failing attempt not to laugh. Harry can’t stop himself from grinning back at him, like he’s drunk on the thrill of having shared some kind of inside joke with Malfoy.
“Sure, sure, take all the credit,” he says.
Malfoy’s eyes flicker down to Harry’s lips for a split second. Harry’s heart races. He mimics the movement, but his eyes get stuck.
Why are his lips so…pink?
“Harry, mate, dessert is on your plate, not Draco’s face.”
Malfoy’s lips tick up into a smirk, and Harry face heats up. He directs his attention back to his plate and shoves a forkfull of cake into his mouth to keep himself form making more of a fool of himself.
It is very, very good.
Malfoy’s voice is in his ear again. “We make a good team, don’t you think?” he says.
Harry shivers. He kind of wants to find the nearest bathroom to scream and also probably jerk off about it.
Or he could let Malfoy drag him home to his posh little Chelsea townhouse to make better use of him.
Harry swallows the cake down. He presses his shoulder against Malfoy’s.
“Yeah, I think we might.”