𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆

Part 2

Breakfast

Harry tidied up his forehead with a bit of gauze he had found in a drawer in his bathroom, and peered at it in the mirror over the sink. His fall against the tile had merely broken the skin, but the profuse bleeding had certainly indicated otherwise. The swelling bump that was pulsing and growing rapidly purple beneath it was the more serious injury. A concussion, Harry realized. His scar was still burning and pulsing fiercely as he studied himself in the mirror; this feeling was heightened by the dull headache emanating from that bump. He felt dizzy, disoriented, and slightly nauseous. The night had been difficult, and it showed on his face. He had woken up with a start in the black of night, a searing pain rolling in waves from his scar and echoing through his entire body. And he had been haunted by dreams, visions, premonitions, memories, Harry wasn't sure what to call them. Voldemort, standing before him, laughing, reaching into him and grabbing at his entrails, pulling him apart...the regular arrival of Draco that morning had pulled him back to reality.

He sighed. He walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his scar absentmindedly and sat, exhausted, at his kitchen table. Draco was cooking. Breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes. There was some cheese and mushrooms on the counter, shredded and chopped. He could smell coffee brewing.

"I didn't know you could cook." Harry pressed the gauze to his head carefully, wincing at the pressure on his very sore concussion, and watched Draco flip a perfect omelette, then reach over and pull a pan of biscuits out of the oven.

"Ah, well, technically you still don't know. I could be whipping up a big pile of rubbish here." Draco noted, sprinkling grated cheese into the pan. "But I do tend to excel at the finer arts. I like cooking. Non-magical cooking, even. It relaxes me." Draco leaned over and poured coffee into Harry's waiting cup.

"Hmm. Good to know. I rather prefer eating." Harry sipping his coffee, suddenly realizing how hungry he was. He was merely competent in the kitchen himself, and certainly didn't try anything by hand if it could be avoided. Cooking reminded him of living with the Dursleys. Draco scraped a couple of pans and filled two plates, dropping one in front of Harry. "So eat." He said. Harry ate, and promptly forgot all about the Dursleys.

"Mmm...you really can cook." Harry said between bites. "These biscuits could levitate on their own." The food was helping his mood tremendously, in spite of his somewhat iffy stomach. He wondered idly if Draco had added any magical ingredients to encourage this, but realized that he didn't mind if he had. Draco took his plate and sat across from Harry, clearing away some papers and books to do so.

"Wait 'til you try my eggplant parmigiana. After that you'll be mine forever to do with as I will." Wiggled an evil eyebrow at Harry, who snorted.

"If you can seduce me with a vegetable called 'eggplant', I will have to be. And considering what you did with what little there was in my fridge, I am already impressed. Why do we go out to eat at all? No more. We're staying in."

"Oh, your flatmate would enjoy that turn of events immensely, I'm sure." Ron had so far winced every time he had come face to face with him, which, admitedly, wasn't too often, so far. Harry had gone to some lengths to keep Draco and his other Hogwarts' friends apart, which Draco appreciated. Their 7am meetings were never interrupted by Ron, who was always running out of the shower and throwing his clothes on as his clock approached the 'You're late(again)!' sign. Draco rose, grabbed the coffee pot, and filled his own cup. "I can't believe you don't have a french press," he mumbled.

"A french what?" Harry attacked his omelette with gusto, half a biscuit in one hand. Draco shook his head at him. He was glad he had added the restorative potion to Harry's coffee; as he watched, he saw tension disappear from his shoulders, he watched his face soften, his jaw unclench, whatever evil thoughts had been haunting him seemed to have let him be. His breathing seemed much less laboured; he smiled genuinely. That lump on his forehead, however, was continuing to grow and turn a darker shade of purple. The cut seemed to have stopped bleeding. Draco wondered how his back was faring, but decided to let Harry eat in peace for now. Draco sipped at the coffee himself, feeling glad he hadn't added the potion only to Harry's cup. He needed a little restoring himself. Draco felt so unsure of himself, so unsure of Harry. It was less than an hour ago that he was imagining that Harry wanted to get rid of him (Gods, please don't let him get rid of me!), and here he was making him breakfast, pouring his coffee, mooning like a schoolgirl over his cuts and bruises, and shortly, he imagined, he would tuck him into bed, and snuggle next to him, watching him fall sleep against his shoulder. Under normal circumstances, Harry was so easy, his expression so clear, he took things as they came, and didn't worry overmuch about what came next. Of course, he could afford to feel that way. He must know I can't do without him. He sighed at himself.

Draco was not the sort of fellow who knew how to deal with a 'casual' relationship.

Harry was honestly shocked by how good everything tasted. He noticed, now, that Draco had clearly been paying close attention to how he had been ordering his meals, and had noted the fact that he liked things with cheese in them when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself. A mushroom and cheese omelette had been, he admitted, perfect for this particular occasion. He was flattered. While he projected a rather casual and self-absorbed appearance, Draco was actually very attentive, loyal, and dedicated. Why, under different circumstances, he could have been a Hufflepuff. Harry stifled a giggle. He smiled at him instead, sitting regally across the table from him, looking a little disdainfully at the mess of papers and books scattered across it. It had been a strange ride, but Harry found that he thoroughly enjoyed Draco's company. He had always imagined Draco with a vivid cruel streak; over the years it seemed to have settled into a rather dry humour and a remarkable talent for witty commentary. Harry would never have expected that Draco would be the type to talk to his supervisor, help him home, one arm wrapped around his waist, and then make him a fabulous breakfast, including a restorative potion. "When are we expected back?" Harry asked, mouth full of biscuit.

"Oh, not today. I told Bill you had a concussion. He was sympathetic, and told me he would take care of it, I could stay with you today, keep an eye on you. I suppose I could go on impressing you with my culinary abilities, but we do still need to talk about this, you reali—" Draco stopped, and dropped his fork, which landed with a clatter on his plate.

Harry looked up at him. "What is it?" Draco had an unreadable expression on his face. He stretched out his right arm, palm up, and stared at it for a moment. He wore a blue shirt, long-sleeved, as it was only March and still damp and cold. His white palms looked almost ghostly in the bright light of the kitchen. Harry looked down at his arm. "Oh no, Draco, it's not..."

Draco looked grimly at Harry, swallowed hard, and pulled up his sleeve. There was his Dark Mark, clear as the day it was pressed into his arm. "It's burning."

Harry sighed. So, it was true then, he wasn't delusional. He didn't know how or why, but Voldemort was back.